


Echoes of Messatine

by MlleMusketeer



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Attempted Rape, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Bullying, Classism, Coercion, Consensual Sex, Crapsack World, Dystopia, Emotional Abuse, Exclusion, Functionist universe is terrible, Functionists, Harassment, I definitely missed something or other but YOU GET THE IDEA, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Noncon, Learning Disabilities, Lobotomy, M/M, Medic megatron, Medical Horror, Medical Procedure, Medical School, Murder, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Organized Crime, Reprogramming, Revolution, Spark Bonds, Spark Sex, Stalking, Sticky Sex, Torture, criminal activity, look I give up this isn’t a walk in the park, no dead babies in this one though, nonconsensual reformatting, political machination, political turmoil, repressive government, shadowplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 43
Words: 71,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/pseuds/MlleMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cybertron hurtles toward war, and only a handful of mecha see it. Not Megatron, whose inflammatory writings gain him agonizing attention from those on high. Not Ratchet, the Iacon Medical Center’s most prized practitioner, whose Dead-End clinic remains the worst-guarded secret on Cybertron. Not Overlord, whose iron hold over Cybertron’s underworld is beginning to falter. Not Orion Pax, whose concern over the sudden silence of one of his favorite writers drives him to take up his hero’s pen. Not Terminus, who only wants to survive.</p><p>But Trepan and Senator Shockwave both know well what’s coming. One aims to use a defiant miner’s fall to crush the aspirations of the masses. The other wants to use that miner’s triumph to ignite them. Neither much cares about Megatron himself, or his ultimate survival.</p><p>Therein lies their fatal error.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have taken considerable liberties with the timeline. This is a universe in which the events of Chaos Theory have simply not taken place, and Megatron and Orion Pax have yet to meet. 
> 
> Also, secondary warning: This is really dark. This fic is filled with horrible things. Read the tags. The tags are as accurate as I can make them at this point. And unlike most of my fics, there is no slow build to the terribleness. It starts on the first page. Be warned, and flee if necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updated with that cover I've been working on...

 

They called it shadowplay.

Now he knew why. Resisting was like trying to fight a shadow. 

And throughout, throughout everything, the pain, the fear, the _wrongness_ , was Trepan’s thin, taunting voice. 

“You don’t know what to think,” the mnemosurgeon said, and with the words, Megatron felt something of himself peeled off, flake away. He whined low in his throat, past even screaming. “We can fix that…” And then a pause, the invading touch settled and did not move further, and the golden optics above his widened with surprise. “Oho, what’s this?”

He did not want to look up at his attacker. He did not want to give him any acknowledgement. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything to defend himself. All he could do was stare upward, helpless, at the mech who held everything he was in his hands.

And see him start to _smile_. 

“Higher aspirations, is it?” the mnemosurgeon said. “They tell me you fancied yourself a poet. Well, how about some _poetic justice_ today?”

The light, invasive touch became acid, ripping through his processor. Megatron screamed in raw agony.

“Full reprogramming does take a little longer,” said Trepan. “But I have a feeling you’ll find it worthwhile. You always did want to be a medic, didn’t you?”

Things he had known his entire life slipped away, knowledge, understanding, and cold new things forced their way into their places. The stream of words, of descriptions, he’d always had sputtered to a stop. New words came in their place: fistulas, subdermal corrosion, debridement, rate of reproduction. His hands flared with pain, their sensitivity increased a thousandfold. 

“A medic you shall be,” said Trepan. 

_I don’t understand! I don’t understand! Stop!_

“Remember,” said Trepan above him and Megatron arched in the restraints, screaming, the world falling in on him in, suffocating. “Remember that you wanted this.”

 

* * *

 

This was _such_ a clever plan.

Well, not standard, but they’d appreciate someone making an example of Megatron of Tarn. Trepan smiled to himself. He wasn’t the Council’s favored mnemosurgon just because of his skill. Political acuity, loyalty to the right people, and a certain _creativeness_ were all contributing factors. Not only could he perform the surgeries, but he could do them in the most advantageous way possible to his patrons.

Who were, to a mechanism, outraged about the mech before him. The foolish little miner had been making such a nuisance of himself. Worse yet, he was intelligent. He _could_ write, and write well, and even though they might stop his tracts at the source, copies would likely continue to be made. Primus, what a mess that would be. 

They needed an example. A demonstration to the people that form always dictated function, no matter the mech’s aspirations. Or delusions. Delusions, more likely. Someone needed to fail. Someone needed to fail spectacularly. 

And why not use the writer of those very same tracts? Trepan laughed softly to himself as he worked. The unfortunate miner had fallen unconscious, pain, terror, the effects of ill-judged defiance. His dreaming brain was putty in Trepan’s hands. 

He loved this, wending through a processor, seeing a mech’s every secret, hope, fear, fantasy, tweaking and changing his victims as he went. This miner wouldn’t know what had happened to him. He’d wake with all his dreams fulfilled, a different life, and fall further than he’d ever imagined. Mining was a kinder life than that of a guttermech—the fate that awaited such failures. Hard to write in between selling yourself for fuel, for one thing. 

Megatron, who had aspired so high, would be given all he wished by the unwise kindness of the Functionist Council, and fall. This would remind the rest of his ilk that staying within their function was in their best interests. No one would want to emulate him. The name Megatron would become synonymous with misfortune, hubris, humiliation. 

He chuckled. He was giving Megatron a medic’s processor. But there were errors. Perfectly natural errors, of course, they wouldn’t look created to an outside eye, but enough to doom him. Just in case his own foolishness didn’t do that first. 

“Oh my dear little Megatron,” he said aloud. “What an interesting life you’re going to have. What’s left of it, at least.”

 

* * *

 

“The idealist is dealt with,” said Trepan. 

_And so you mean to kill me,_ thought Terminus. He closed his optics. What happened now did not matter. Megatron had been such a bright thing, such a kind spark, and in losing him, they had lost their fight before it had even begun. He did not know if there was more he could have done. It didn’t matter now, not with everything lost. Maybe someone would take up Megatron’s writings. Maybe. 

“I will require someone to keep an eye on him,” said Trepan, and Terminus jolted as needles slid into his brain. He hissed through his vents, soft anger and pain. “You will be perfect. He trusts you. And you…well, of the two of you, I do believe you are the bigger problem. Megatron may have written those things, but you were the one who knew how to change them into the fuel for a revolution.”

_One I hope has caught_ , thought Terminus. _If we die, it will not die with us._

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of your hopes,” said Trepan. After a moment, he chuckled. “Yes, this was an even better idea than I thought. You get to watch your little protegé get everything he ever wanted, and destroy your precious revolution in the process. Better yet, he won’t even know that he’s undoing his life’s work. But you—you _will_. And you will tell us how well it’s going.”

Confusion. Why so much effort? They could simply be shadowplayed, sent back to the mines to rot in obscurity.

“The mines offer too much autonomy, my dear Terminus. Who knows, Megatron might get it into his dear little processor to try his hand at something else damaging. No, much better to keep you two where we can watch you.” He chuckled. “Much better to give Megatron everything he ever wanted and let him fail spectacularly. He’ll have only himself to blame.”

He didn’t understand. All he knew was that it was bad. Something like Trepan wouldn’t be happy otherwise. 

Megatron did not deserve this. 

Protective rage surged through him, hatred of the thought of this foul little creature touching Megatron, hurting him, violating his mind as casually as—

A snicker. “You really do care about him, don’t you,” purred Trepan. “Primus, but you’re a fool. I suppose he’s fond of you, too. He trusts you. You know that.”

Pain. Violation. Something changing.

“So very much, the innocent thing that he is. I think you should know—he can’t imagine you betraying him.”

_I won’t betray him!_

Trepan laughed. “We’ll see about that. Enough talking. Time to get to work.”

Terminus snarled under the gag. _One day,_ he thought at the invasive touch through his mind, _one day, Trepan, you and yours will die for this._

Trepan ignored him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Megatron sat up slowly, raising a hand to his helm, wondering if he pressed hard enough, he could do something about the awful processor ache seething there. 

He stopped mid-gesture. His arm was the wrong color. White, not dark gray, and what had been a strip of hi-viz tape was now plain red paint. His hands were red as well. 

“I don’t understand,” he said aloud, and headache forgotten, looked down at himself. No more blacks and grays. Reds and whites, a touch of blue on the edges of his pedes, his arms. 

There was a mirror opposite him. He looked up at his reflection and jolted back. Not because they’d changed his helm—they hadn’t—but because the optics that looked back at him were blue. 

_Is that really me?_ he wondered, reaching for his reflection. He touched glass, red hand against red hand. No doubt. 

There were medic’s insignias on his shoulders.

_I don’t understand._ He looked around, wracked his memory. There was nothing to explain this. No clue in the room around him. Blank pale walls and a mirror. _Is this a plot? Who would have done this to me?_

Miners didn’t wake up and find themselves medics. That would imply the Functionist Council had made a mistake. That would imply that form _didn’t_ dictate function. 

He swallowed hard. _I know I wanted it. I know I wanted it more than anything. But I’m a miner. I was constructed a miner. I’m not qualified, I don’t have the right—the right whatever it is that determines assignments!_

The thought didn’t feel right. He wasn’t sure why. 

After a moment, he looked down again at his hands. _I_ want _this,_ he remembered. _I cannot shirk now._

He wanted words to describe this, the confusion and fear and excitement too. They didn’t come. He sank back on the berth, looking at his hands. He wasn’t even sure what to think now.

The doors that he hadn’t even thought to open, to check if they were locked, slid aside.

“Hello, Megatron. Feeling better?”

“Feeling better?” The words felt strange. “I…I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“We believe you’ve demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for medicine,” said the mech. He was small, hardly came up to Megatron’s shoulder, his golden optics amused and kind. “I just finished a lengthly reformatting of your processor to ensure that you’ll be able to accomplish the tasks assigned to you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Megatron again.

“Your treatment of Terminus was most intriguing,” said the little mech. The doctor, Megatron guessed. “It demonstrated a certain potential. We have something of a problem, you see—those unfortunate enough to find themselves discontent in their work, as you were, and who cannot quite fit into the great Cybertronian machine need a way in which to be satisfyingly resettled from their first assignment into one that will suit them better. You’re experimental; we’ll see if it can be done, and if so, we’ll create a good, well-regulated application process.”

“But why me?” He had been unhappy in his function, desperately unhappy, but he couldn’t remember ever giving it voice. He simply remembered the spark-deep need to help, the agony over Terminus, not knowing what to do. Had he ever let it show?

The mech patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry about things like that. You’re not programmed for them.”

He didn’t like that, but he knew better than to say so. He looked down. 

Another pat. Condescending. He didn’t like it. “Cheer up, Megatron. It’s what you’ve wanted your entire function.”

He looked in the mirror again before he could stop himself. Unfamiliar optics stared back at him from his own face. 

“Blue is a calming color,” said the mech. “It’ll help you function better in your new role.”

“Yes,” he said, a flat assent. He didn’t know what else to say. He should be happy. He knew he’d wanted this—at least the ability to help his fellow miners. He’d seen mecha lose limbs, permanently, left so long without treatment that their autorepair would never accept a replacement. He’d seen them offline for lack of simple treatment. But could he be the one to repair them? It didn’t seem right. So much of this didn’t seem right.

Yes, he should want this.

Now he didn’t, and he didn’t even understand why.

 

* * *

 

 

“They slipped up.”

Shockwave tilted his helm and raised an eyebrow, a silent query. 

“They’re going to make a demonstration,” said his informant. The mech sounded like a computer through the vocal modulator changing his voice; unsettling, but necessary to his peace of mind. Certain people didn’t take ‘don’t worry, they wouldn’t dare touch me’ as much of an assurance. Just as well. These days, Shockwave wasn’t sure it was such an assurance. 

He remained silent.

“There’s a miner,” said the informant. “We’re not sure why. He’s been reclassified and modified; a medic.”

“A medic?” He too, wore a modulator. The news that Senator Shockwave was engaged in active sedition wasn’t news he wanted out and about. Not if he wanted to remain capable of active sedition. “Who is this bot?”

“Megatron of Tarn,” said the informant, and Shockwave very carefully did not draw in a sharp vent. Megatron. The writer. Reformatted—of course they’d reformat him. He was likely no longer a writer.

But to turn him into a medic?

That did not seem typical of the Council.

“My source says they’re planning to have him fail the exams. Spectacularly. No one will take him as an apprentice after that. It’s to prove that us lower castes can’t handle intellectual work.”

“Interesting,” said Shockwave, thinking over what little he knew about the Iacon medical schools. Very little indeed; a year of training, he knew from Ratchet’s griping, exams, two to five years of apprenticeship. 

He wasn’t sure what happened to failures. Nothing good, he imagined.

Particularly if the Council already had it out for the unfortunate spark.

“Very good. Thank you,” he said aloud. This would be a brilliant bit of propaganda if it succeeded for the Council. Give a miner everything he ever wanted and let him destroy himself. Or be destroyed by forces beyond his control. 

There was nothing for it but to take an interest.


	3. Chapter 3

The mech who had first spoken to him was named Trepan, and he had a great many important things to do. Megatron learned this quickly. Trepan did not have time for him. 

That was what the rest of his escort was for. 

They talked to him, told him about expectations, what the cities on Cybertron itself were like, as if he had never been there. He listened politely enough. He didn’t want to anger them.

He couldn’t recall ever in his function feeling so like prey, a petrorabbit among turbofoxes, always nervous, always watching, cooperating to remain safe. Maybe it was being aboveground, being expected to remain aboveground.

Surely he hadn’t loved the mines so?

He didn’t understand.

It frightened him. So much did these days. He wasn’t sure he was himself. He wasn’t sure what he could do about it.

They were helpful, at least. They’d found him housing, they said. And people to show him around. Ease the transition, just a little. Smiled at each other, condescending, and Megatron bowed his helm in assent, seething at being treated like a service droid, but too afraid to say anything. Self-disgust flickered at that, faded. He wanted to rebel. He was not a pet. But they might send him back, or worse. He wasn’t sure what worse might be, but he couldn’t face it.

A day later, they landed in Iacon.

Megatron stepped down off the transport with his escort flanking him. They felt confining, though he knew they were only there for his safety. Still, his plating prickled. 

He looked around. It was big. And bright. He hadn’t realized how dark Messantine had been until now. Or the smells. This seemed so clean. Bright, easy to move about in—

“I know it’s rather a bit much,” said one of his escort. “We’ll be inside soon.”

Megatron shook his head. “No, I’m fine.” He looked around, spark whirling. He wanted—he wanted—it was too beautiful not to do something, not to find a way to express it, but his glossa clove to the top of his mouth, his mind clicked endlessly, like an engine in neutral, and there were no words, not even a slip of what he wanted to do. There was something, something, he knew it, the desire to paint this, to sing it, to— _something!—_ but it slipped from his grasp as he reached for it.

“Come along.” A hand closed around his elbow. “We’ll get you settled in.” 

“Thank you,” he said aloud, still staring, still wondering what to do with such beauty, such light. 

They took him to the student housing of the medical school, undoubtably small and cramped by the standards of the students, but huge, decadent to him. He had a room to himself, a narrow berth (still wider than those he was accustomed to), a washracks, and, unimaginable luxury, a desk with a small shelf for his datapads. 

A still more unimaginable luxury was the window. He went to it immediately, not caring about the mocking glances of his guards, pressed a hand against it. There was so much light. He wondered if he would be able to recharge, didn’t care, because there was something wondrous about looking out over the city like this from his own quarters.

“The energon dispensary is on the ground floor,” said one of the mecha in the door. “We will collect you in the morning for your classes.”

“Thank you,” he said, still staring out over the city. 

It was so _clean._ He looked down at himself with a frown. The white paint seemed wrong. Dirt would show up so easily on it. _Energon_ would show up so easily. Did medics wear white to show they could afford to stay clean? Or so contaminations would show up?

It was strange. He was strange. And he dreaded meeting his peers. He had no illusions about how someone like him would be viewed, with suspicion, disdain, anger. His frame would be out of place, the treads on his back an obvious statement that he did not belong, that he was an imposter in their midst. They would not take kindly to that.

A flicker of defiant rage slipped into his thoughts, vanished as soon as it appeared. He quested after it. He needed it, it felt right, the half-vent of its presence made him feel like himself again. But it was gone. 

He let out a long vent, sorry for its loss. Tried to collect himself again, calm the yammering of fear in his mind. 

_I will do this_ , he thought. _It’s needed. For all the mecha like me, seeking a better life, I_ have _to succeed._

It helped. Not as much as he needed it to. But it helped.

 

* * *

 

To his surprise, he fell into recharge propped up in his window, and woke the next morning in scant time to collect his ration of energon from the dispensary. He fueled, ignoring the glances of the other mecha in the room, and went to meet his escort.

_Jailers_ , said something in the back of his processor, like an echo, and he shook his helm to dismiss it. 

They took him to the academy, and he was back to staring—the great white building at the edge of sight was the Iacon Medical Academy, and he had never been in something so grand before. It was very much like a temple, a frieze on one wall depicting a team of medics facing Mortilis, small and defiant, each with a hand upraised to bid the god halt. Mortilis stood uncertain in their face, threatening, but with one pede back, as if beginning to retreat. 

Megatron felt his spark lift in determination. 

The second medic from the front had a rough patch behind him, almost as if some part of his alt-mode kibble had been chipped away. Megatron’s optics followed the curve of that rough patch.

That kibble could have been tank treads.

And it wasn’t the only such patch.

His guards hurried him past, but he’d seen enough, and it let him straighten his shoulders. _Things haven’t always been like this_ , he realized as they went, and it felt as if he’d thought the same thought before, like something returning home to him. He couldn’t imagine why he’d forgotten it. _Things haven’t always been like this—and maybe, once, they were better._

Pain twinged through his processor. He ignored it, dismissed it as anxiety, and looked more closely at his surroundings. 

Bright. New. Very clean. Other mecha in red and white hurried through, looking at datapads, talking low and urgent among themselves. Almost all the optics around him were blue, and for the first time he thought of his own replaced optics with something other than hurt and anger. Was it a medical thing? He wished he dared to ask. He wished he could ask for his old optics back. These did not function in low light as his old ones had. 

There, a glint of something other than red and white. He craned to see—just in time to spot a mech with a mop and bucket vanish around the corner. His plating had been dull gray. 

No one else seemed to take notice of him.

Maintenance. Of course. Someone had to do the work to keep it this spotless.

Anger again, fleeting and comforting. He wasn’t sure why. 

“Stop dawdling,” snapped one of his jailers—guards—escort—Primus! He couldn’t remember what to think of them as, and it confused him badly. “Come along, we’re already almost late.”

He bobbed his helm in assent and followed meekly enough, wondering what else he might see if only he could be free of them. 


	4. Chapter 4

There was a very brief orientation. Datapads were shoved into his hands by a harried clerk, a map, a schedule of courses, the curriculum, the training expectations, behavior expectations. 

He looked at the schedule as his escort dragged him out. He had a class in less than fifteen minutes. The location was an unintelligible acronym. “Where is HBC 326?”

“That’s your problem,” said the leader of the escort. “We got you here, we got you oriented, we’re done.”

And they left. 

He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or concerned. He’d have to find the building himself, of course, but not having his every move watched was worth it. He shuffled through the datapads, found the one with the map on it, and tried to locate HBC. Whatever that was.

It took longer than it should have. It took ten minutes to walk there, only to discover that HBC wasn’t one building, but two, separated by several other buildings, and that 326 was not in fact in the half of HBC he’d just arrived at. 

By the time he found the actual classroom, he was late, venting hard, and even more anxious. The fact the door banged behind him didn’t help at all. The fact that the hundred mecha in the room all turned to look at him helped even less.

He stammered an apology and found somewhere to sit. 

It was the third lecture of the term, he realized partway through, and he had no idea of anything that was said. He wrote it down dutifully, distressed at the thought of how behind he was, finished the class and went to the next one and the next.

After the first four hours, one thing was apparent.

He was hopelessly behind. 

He couldn’t tell them this. There were so many people like him who needed this, even more than he did. He couldn’t let them down. He didn’t want to tell Trepan he’d failed—the thought made a cold knot settle in his tanks. Trepan, whatever he wanted with him, wasn’t a friend. 

There was even an exam in one of the classes. He stared miserably at it, not knowing what to do with it, knowing full well that they wouldn’t make an exception. He wanted to put something at least down, but his terror of making a mistake froze him in place, helpless. In the end, he turned it in blank, to the frown of the instructor. 

His fellow students simply didn’t talk to him. They watched him, suspicious and distant. Once, he thought he saw one of them laugh at him. 

He sat alone that night over his energon. After a time, he simply collected it to drink in his rooms, and study.

Studying simply made him more bewildered. He didn’t understand the terminology. Someone had neglected to download the full vocabulary file he needed for that. He didn’t understand half of this, and the writing was terrible, and dense, and he kept almost falling into recharge over it. After a time he got a pad and a stylus and started rewriting everything. It helped a little. He supposed. 

He curled up on his recharge slab that night, feeling like he’d accomplished nothing. He wondered where Terminus was, wondered if he dared to ask. _Who_ he’d ask, if he could. Trepan certainly wasn’t in evidence. 

He let out a long vent. Squeezed his optics shut. Longed for the mines with an intensity that drew a half-formed sob from his vocalizer before he stifled it. Forced himself to lie still on the too-big slab, taut with misery and despair, until at last his frame’s autonomic systems overrode his emotional cortex and slipped him into recharge.

 

* * *

 

The prosthetics hurt. 

Of course they wouldn’t give him real legs. Terminus gritted his dentae and limped onward. The prosthetics were only because they needed him mobile, able to spy, but they were not going to forget his active sedition, and so he was stuck with these. They pinched and scraped, and he was sure they weren’t right for a frame of his size. 

The medics, of course, did not listen. They were paid to not listen. Paid to not respond to his queries about whether his frame would ever accept new legs, if his self-repair had decided his damage was what his frame ought to be. Little matter, he thought grimly, as if they’d ever let him have true legs again. 

He wondered how Megatron fared. If he was so trapped, what of Megatron? He still didn’t know the extent of the shadowplay, or if Megatron would even recognize him. He at least still had most of his mind; Trepan’s punishment wouldn’t be complete without it. But Megatron was in all likelihood helpless. Trusting. Even without shadowplay, Megatron had always been too trusting. 

He saw him sometimes, in his classes, frowning intently, trailing datapads, asleep in the library, trying to make up with studying what most mecha were onlined with. The first time, he’d slipped away and come back with a thermal insulator, tucked it tight about the younger mech’s shoulders, and left him that way. After the third time, he simply started keeping an extra thermal insulation in the cabinets near the library. Megatron slept in the library more often than not.

Watching him, watching the scores in the tests posted in the hallway, Terminus tasted defeat. Whether it be Trepan’s intention, or Megatron’s own processor, Megatron was failing. Megatron was failing, and they’d both be out on the streets—or worse—very soon. Trepan must be delighted. 

At least Megatron’s work might outlive them both.

It was something to hold onto, through the miserable drudgery that was a hospital sanitation worker’s life. His colleagues were largely quiet, preferring to get quietly, determinedly drunk when they were offshift, to recharge heavily. He had never seen even miners so dispirited, but under the watchful optics of their superiors, there was little leeway. They didn’t even frag in storage closets. It was a miserable function, and yet they counted themselves lucky not to be miners, worked in the dull fear of being downgraded to miners, a sullen pride that they were at least better than someone.

He was not, to say the least, particularly popular among them.

“You smell like slag,” one informed him the first evening, to muffled snickers. He said nothing, limped over to get his ration, and sat heavily on his berth. 

“You smell like slag,” and its endless, creative variations became a common greeting, a standard part of his life. Terminus accepted it, and worked. He was not afraid of what they might do to him. Death, further shadowplay—anything that would end his awareness of this would be welcome. But what they might yet do to Megatron, that chilled him to the spark.

Worse still, he knew that was what they expected him to think. 

So he kept his helm down, and worked. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Hi.” 

Megatron looked down in the act of collecting his midday ration of energon. A small, visored faceplate looked up at him, despite the lack of eyes or a mouth managing to convey a nervous, eager to please air. One of his fellow first-years. 

“Hello,” he said, looking the smaller mech over. Very small indeed, not quite a minibot but bordering on it, with a very simple red and white paintjob. He wasn’t sure what the alt-mode was, which doubtless would have driven his instructors to distraction, but the overall effect was pleasing and friendly. Perfect for a medic, he thought somewhat sadly. Not intimidating. The instructors had happily singled him out as an example of the heavy, intimidating aspect miners and the ‘labor classes’ were supposed to exemplify. 

“I’m First Aid,” said the smaller mech. “What’s your designation?”

“Megatron.”

“Oh!” The smaller mech looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “Um. Is anyone, um, sitting with you?”

“No.”

First Aid filled his cube and followed him. “Oh, good. Hey, so um, you’re new too?”

Megatron looked at him with raised optic ridges. “Yes.” 

“So, you’re catching up as well. I was kind of late in maturing? Something about the sentio metallico settling, they didn’t tell me much, but so I’m late joining my cohort, and I noticed you are too, and I was wondering, would you want to study together? Because I’m pretty lost.” The glow behind the visor narrowed a little into something that was likely the equivalent of a sheepish grin. 

Megatron hesitated, wondering if he could trust the smaller mech. 

First Aid looked down. “Though…if you don’t want dead weight…it’s okay, I guess? Sorry, I didn’t want to presume too much…”

That made up his mind. He managed a smile. “No. Nothing of the sort. I was just surprised that anyone would want to study with me.”

“Well, I would.” 

“If so, I would be delighted,” said Megatron. He settled down, making room for First Aid next to him. “Do you know what your specialty will be yet?”

“No,” said First Aid, looking glumly down at his ration of energon. “Everyone else in our cohort has. Primus, what if they make us have to repeat training? That would be horrible.”

Megatron rather suspected he’d be lucky to be allowed to repeat the training, but nodded anyway. 

“Do you know yet?”

Megatron chuckled. “No. Far from it. I will be very surprised if I do not have to repeat training.”

“But you’re good! You know all the things in the lectures! I know your scores aren’t the best but really, they’re hard tests! But you can answer the questions in class, which no one else does!”

“You do test well,” said Megatron, “which I don’t.” He raised his optic ridges at the smaller mech. “What makes you think I’m so much better at this than you are?” 

“I—I um…I…”

“Excuse me,” said a voice above them, and both of them looked up. One of the other students in their cohort looked back at them, wings hiked high on his back, blue optics narrowed. “First Aid, there is an open spot for you at the usual table.”

“You can have it.” There was an edge to First Aid’s voice. “I’m sitting here.”

The flightframe’s optics flicked from one to the other. “Are you sure of this?”

“Yes.” A change in First Aid’s tone, something challenging. Megatron didn’t understand it, why this medic would be suddenly so hostile. “Would you care to join us?”

“No,” said the flightframe, and turned away. First Aid watched him go, the band of light behind his visor narrow with suspicion.

“I take it you two don’t get on,” said Megatron, carefully.

“Pompous gasket,” muttered First Aid. “Ignore him. Ignore _all_ of them.”

“Why should I do that?” 

“You haven’t heard what they call you?”

He had. It stung, but he certainly wasn’t going to worry about it over everything else.At least they weren’t predisposed to violence. He inclined his helm in a nod.

“Yeah. Ignore it. You’re working harder than any of us; that’s _important._ ” First Aid let out a long vent. “So, I started thinking, if that’s what they’re saying about _you_ , what are they saying about me? You actually know things. Me, I’m just…overcooked.”

“Protoform formation happens at different rates,” said Megatron, who’d been reading the pediatrics textbooks the previous night. “It’s perfectly normal.”

“Not when it makes for an easy jibe,” said First Aid. 

Megatron chuckled. “Very true.”

 

* * *

 

First Aid joined him in the library that evening. He had a good copy of the vocabulary upload and was more than happy to share. He also was simply good company. 

_I can do this_ , Megatron found himself thinking after one late-night study session, as he left with his notes in hand, First Aid’s cheerful farewell ringing in his audials. He smiled; the little mech’s good cheer was infectious. _I can actually do this. I’ve pulled my scores up by ten points in the last_ week. _I can do more._

First Aid’s scores were also improving, Megatron was pleased to note, which meant it was somehow reciprocal. And he now had someone to share fuel with, and, on one of their rare days off, explore the city with. 

The city itself was huge and glittering, but Megatron’s optic kept getting caught on the unsavory parts; the rusting mech curled in an alley, an empty energon cube in front of him for passerby’s charity, the battered and weary sanitation worker being harangued away from a transport by an enforcer, the mecha being turned away from an oilhouse because they were not the right caste. He didn’t like it; it made him feel small and dirty and impotent, and below it lay a shameful relief that he was now exempt from those things.

“More people should do what Ratchet does,” said First Aid unexpectedly one day, as they passed a mouth of an alley with a Syk addict juddering mindlessly in its depths. “He has a clinic in the Dead End, totally free. Only one of the faculty who does. No one’s been apprenticed to him for _years._ No one wants to. I’m not even sure if it’s legal? But I think it’s important. We’re lucky; why are we ignoring everyone else?”

Megatron looked down at him in surprise. “I agree,” he said. “I would like to be apprenticed to him.”

“Me too,” said First Aid, and the light behind his visor curved in a smile. “That would be fun, with you. Ratchet…well, the fourth years call him ‘The Hatchet’ for a reason. But it’d be worthwhile. And I want to do something that matters. And if I have a friend with me…”

Megatron smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Orion stared at the blank screen of the datapad and felt a proper fool. 

He’d _known_ someone writing as Megatron of Tarn did wouldn’t keep doing so for long. He’d _known_ it, and still, now, he felt…sad. Betrayed. Angry. Nothing new for months. 

He sighed. Megatron hadn’t been advocating violence, but he had nevertheless angered someone, that much was apparent. And there was so much he had yet to write, too—Orion had already thought about what Megatron had said on the subject of functional lock-in, about structural violence, and wondered whether the author might go in the same direction as his thoughts had.

Unlikely. Unlikely that he would ever write again.

Hopefully, he’d had a broad enough readership that the Council wouldn’t go after individuals. Orion used a number of proxies, false leads, all the proper precautions, but he didn’t have as much faith in them as he might have liked. Those less fortunate likely had less. 

He wondered if Ratchet knew, if Ratchet read them at all. Ratchet certainly _acted_ on them, with the clinic. It wasn’t as if he’d been able to saunter in and set up a clinic, either. That place had been the result of years of something very like war, with Overlord’s pet medics raising strenuous objection to the idea of an outsider (a trained outsider, at that) poaching their clientele—though victims was a better term, given the average level of skill of the practitioners and the average price of the procedures. For many of them, being paid to hurt people was a dream come true. So Overlord, and his hired bullies, took an understandably dull view of Ratchet’s arrival. 

Ratchet took a dim view of Overlord.

And Overlord had never encountered someone who reacted to threats as Ratchet had. Mecha were supposed to cower when you threatened to tear their arms off, not give you a sarcastic estimate of the force required, poke you hard in an arm cable, and then turn their backs on you while explaining why you had a suddenly uncooperative arm for the next four hours. They weren’t supposed to stare levelly at you as you described all the hideous things they’d do to you, and then give you an account of the last oil filter they’d changed, which was a thousand times worse.They weren’t supposed to, so easily it appeared accidental, rally the rest of the community around them. Mecha _liked_ free medical care. Especially high quality medical care. And Ratchet used pain chips, unless someone had been _really_ stupid and the injury was minor.

It had been about then that Orion had stepped in and made it very clear that anyone messing with Ratchet would be messing with him as well, and Overlord backed off. As much as Overlord ever backed off—he was probably still planning things. 

Orion wondered what Megatron might have said about that circumstance, about the inherent violence of a system that supported mecha like Overlord, abut how to deal with them. They certainly weren’t on top, but they exploited the lower castes just as much—if not more—than the Functionists did. 

He looked at the blank datapad.

He lifted a stylus, and frowned at it.

Then he opened the text editor, and began to write.

_Not yet addressed are the issues that an authoritarian regime creates within poorer urban areas, the gangs, the black markets, the overall resistance on the part of the established criminal structure to legitimate aid._ He paused, frowned at the stylus. Went back to writing. _On occasion, the established criminal structure is so deeply entrenched, it is a government in its own right. It levies taxes, has its own legal code, its own defensive capabilities—and if it is a functional structure, many will support it wholeheartedly, as in that regard it is an improvement on the established structure. Yet these violently guarded kingdoms within our society are often ignored, while nonviolent dissidents reap the full ire of the law…_

He wasn’t sure if he was right. He did think that it needed to be said, that it was true to his own experiences. Maybe that would be enough. 


	6. Chapter 6

First Aid was smiling, he could tell. Megatron smiled back. “Looks like we’ve both made it into the surgery program,” he said. 

“Thanks to _you_ ,” said First Aid. 

“No. Thanks to you.” They looked at the scores and their assignment with great satisfaction. “But it looks like we’re assigned different instructors for our practical classes.”

“Yeah.” First Aid looked downcast. “I wish we could trade. I don’t know who your instructor is, but he’s got to be gentler than Pharma.”

Megatron put a hand on First Aid’s shoulder. “Pharma’s the best,” he said quietly. “And you deserve it. You _are_ good enough, Aid. No matter what the rest of our cohort says.”

“You’re just being nice.” But he looked pleased enough, especially at the use of his nickname, an unusual intimacy from Megatron, who was still unaccustomed to treating his colleagues with anything but formality.

Megatron smiled again. “Not being truthful about this would be being unkind,” he said. “You deserve it. Now, get yourself to class, pay attention, and I’ll see you this evening. We can compare notes.”

“Yes. Yes, right.” First Aid’s visor lit up. “I’ll have something to look forward to, then!”

Megatron watched him go with warm affection blooming in his spark. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was friendship or something more, and didn’t entirely care. Either way, having someone like First Aid around made it all bearable—all the little taunts, all the snide remarks, his knowledge that his scores had yet to much improve. With Aid’s ready, friendly companionship, he could manage.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, sweetspark. Wash _up_.”

Ratchet’s mouth quirked in a smile. He was all over semi-processed energon and Syk; one of his patients had purged his tanks while he’d been examining the mech’s intake. Some of it had been dealt with by the clinic washracks. Most of it hadn’t. “As if I smell any worse than you do after a fuel pump transplant.”

“You do.” Pharma’s wings hiked up in amusement. “Wash up, and come get your fuel. I bought some of those lead flakes you’re particularly fond of on my way home today.”

Both of Ratchet’s optic ridges shot up. Even when Pharma was in a particularly good mood, he didn’t tend to do the shopping. “Is there something I should know? Have I been diagnosed with something nasty and fatal?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Wash up and I’ll tell you.”

Ratchet went to wash up, taking his time. He was tired; it had been a long and messy day, and the hot spray of water and solvents worked knots out of his back and neck cabling. _I’m getting old_ , he thought with some amusement. _If I caught anyone else my age running that damned clinic, I’d think they were insane…right after I shook them by the hand!_

He thought about the patients who pulled knives or worse on him, the would-be burglars who wanted the medications to sell on the streets, the endless stream of ‘accidents’ Overlord had arranged. He certainly couldn’t blame Pharma for resenting the clinic, for trying to get him to close it down. He would have had fits if his mate were doing what he was—even without factoring in that Pharma had not the slightest clue of how to function outside a hospital. But some things were more important than his safety. Like all the lives taken by perfectly preventable illness. Like people seeing that there was an alternative to Overlord’s little games. Like the guttermecha who’d somehow fallen between the cracks, or been so injured that society refused to give them work. 

And it was in no small part for himself, because some days when he returned home to his bright little housing unit and a caring if bad-tempered mate, the guilt choked him so that he stood on the doorstep and could not move forward. How could he live like this when other mecha starved for want of energon? How could lead flakes on a cube of foamed high grade taste good, with the memory of the optics of a starving newbuild, declared useless as soon as he’d first transformed? Sometimes the Iacon Medical Center itself revolted him, with its sculptures and aggrandizement of their art, while mecha slowly rotted from rust infections on the same world. Three days ago, he’d tried to treat a mech with a rust infection of his dentae. Tried; the infection was deep-rooted, and reached the brain casing and then the brain, the bot in question fully conscious of its progress until then, fully conscious of the hot sear of agony as it wrapped around his brain, then reduced him to a gibbering wreck. There had been nothing to do at that point. Just pain chips, supportive care, making sure he died clean.

Ratchet wasn’t religious. If he were, he suspected that everyone but those mecha was going to the Pit, for being complicit in such vicious degradation. For all he did to ease suffering, he was just as guilty. He envied Pharma, sometimes, for not looking at the energon they drank, the supplements they used, and wondering about how they were produced. The conditions of the miners, the conditions of the refinery, the empty tanks that needed it more than theirs. Pharma had never known a day of underfueling in his function, and Ratchet hoped it would stay that way, whatever the attendant injustices. What underfueling Ratchet had known had been entirely of his own choice. There was a very great difference in that. 

He finished cleaning off, then polished his armor to a high gloss. Pharma might be irritated that he was letting his energon sit, but Ratchet had had enough of feeling grungy for the day. 

Pharma was not irritated. Pharma was still in a good mood, and the energon was good as well. Was he feeling guilty for the argument they’d had two days ago? Ratchet wasn’t sure. 

“I have a new student,” Pharma announced. “I think this one is going to be worthwhile—he’s annoyingly deferent but we can work past that.”

“All the students are annoyingly deferent around you,” said Ratchet. “But if you think he’s good enough, then he’s going to be spectacular.” He smiled over his cube. “Is that what all this is about?”

“Can’t I just be happy to see my esteemed bondmate?” 

Ratchet snorted, secretly charmed. Both he and Pharma were irascible enough that brief periods without an argument—serious or for fun—were rare indeed. Pharma might be significantly younger than he, but they’d both been sparked with the same sharp glossa, and finding Pharma had been a fragging relief. He’d never thought he’d find anyone willing to put up with his bad hours and worse temper. He loved Pharma, loved arguing theory with him, as long as the argument remained academic, for fun instead of in anger. “And I’m happy to see you, too, my dear.”

The endearment felt odd, always did from him, as did his compliments of anything physical, but Pharma’s wings hiked up a little and he knew he’d said the right thing.

“And it’s rare enough to find a good student,” said Pharma. “Poor old Lathe got saddled with one frag of a pity case. Did you know, someone decided to reprogram a miner and send him here to see if miners can be _trained_ to be medics?”

Pharma didn’t like Lathe. No wonder he felt like celebrating. He’d picked the plum of the incoming class to mentor, and Lathe had gotten stuck with the worst. Ratchet personally thought Lathe made a great drinking buddy, if a deeply boring surgeon with only basic skill. Pharma simply held him in disdain for his stupidity and didn’t care about anything else. 

“How much reformatting did they inflict on the poor fragger?” he asked, instead of following that unsavory line of thought.

“Paint job, some new equipment, and going from his scores, nothing more.”

Ratchet let out a low hiss from his vents. “Sounds like someone wants him to fail.”

“As if they’d have to try! Come on, Ratchet. A miner? Doing _our_ line of work? If they’d scanned much of a processor in him when he was onlined, he would have been here in the first place.”

Ratchet made a noncommittal noise. The evening had started well; he didn’t want to be the one to put a foot wrong first. 

“In any case, Lathe isn’t going to have any luck with that one. It’ll be fun watching him try, though.”

“He certainly will try,” said Ratchet softly, and ignored Pharma’s puzzled look as he took another mouthful of energon. Lathe sure as Pit tried, you had to say that for him. “Can we stop talking about this? I’ve had three separate mecha purge on me this afternoon. I’m exhausted.”

Pharma huffed. “Fine.”

“I’d like to hear more about this student of yours,” he said, to soothe Pharma. “Anyone who can impress you has my attention.”

It worked. Pharma smiled, and started talking. Ratchet relaxed back into his chair and listened. 


	7. Chapter 7

First Aid stayed over that evening, rather inadvertently. It was mostly because he’d fallen into recharge over Megatron’s desk, and Megatron hadn’t had the spark to move him before nodding off over his own work in the window. 

So it was with considerable surprise that he came back online to see First Aid bending over him, visor bright with worry. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You all right?”

Megatron blinked at him. “Yes?” he hazarded, because, while he felt fine, First Aid had to be concerned for a reason. His face felt damp, and when he reached up to wipe at it, his hand came away sticky with optic cleanser. 

“You were having a bad recharge flux,” said First Aid. “Talking and all.”

Megatron tried a small smile. “Sorry I disturbed you.”

First Aid glanced away, then back at him. “Who’s Trepan?”

A chill settled in Megatron’s spark, totally irrational. Trepan had helped him. Why should he be so frightened? He wasn’t sure what to say, settled on, “He picked me. For this. He’s supervising my integration into the medical caste.”

“Oh.” First Aid looked away again, visor flickering with indecision and discomfort.

“How do you know his name?” 

First Aid muttered something. Megatron looked at him quizzically until he repeated it. 

“You were begging him to stop.”

The cold in his spark increased a thousandfold. “I don’t understand,” he said. “He’s never been anything but kind to me…”

“You’re scared of him,” said First Aid flatly. “Someone who’s kind to you but still scares you like that isn’t really being kind, Megatron.”

“It was a dream.” His voice sounded strange to his audials. More firm than he felt. “A foolish recharge flux. I’m worried about the exam.”

“Yeah, right,” said First Aid. “Want me to stay?”

He hesitated. He didn’t want to prove First Aid any more right. But being alone just now wasn’t something he could face with anything like equanimity. 

“Please,” he said, and First Aid patted his shoulder. 

“I’ll take the floor.”

 

* * *

 

First Aid was disturbed. Megatron—well, he knew there was a story there, to be sure, but he hadn’t really considered the possibility of it being a very bad story. But as upset as Megatron was, as embarrassed as he seemed at what he called a stupid recharge flux, First Aid simply couldn’t believe that it was the furthest thing from stupid, or fantasy. Something bad had happened to his friend. Something so bad, he either didn’t remember it, or couldn’t talk about it. And Trepan was at the center of it. 

He didn’t dare tell Megatron about the way he’d sobbed, as if his spark were being wrung in two. About the real terror in his voice. Megatron was unhappy enough, and First Aid very much feared that if he knew someone had seen him like that, he’d never be able to look First Aid in the optics again. He seemed intensely private. 

Intensely private? Or was that, too, a product of something that had been done to him? Was all of his reserve learned rather than intrinsic? The bare overview of psychology they’d had said mecha could respond to trauma like that. The thought made him angry. Megatron was a decent mech. He tried harder than anyone else in their class, he didn’t deserve this. Whatever Trepan might have done.

Trepan was at the center of it, and as Megatron had just admitted, Trepan had considerable power over him. There were so many very, very bad things that could mean. 

He needed to find out who this Trepan was first. And he knew just the way to do it. Anyone high ranked enough to supervise the sort of project Megatron represented had to be some kind of medical specialist in their own right, and probably a graduate of this same institution. First Aid went directly to the alumni records and got to work.

Trepan. There was only one. A mnemosurgeon.

“Oh frag,” First Aid said softly.

 

* * *

 

He felt an absolute fool. When he met First Aid during their midday break, he knew for a certain fact that, whatever he’d said in the midst of that recharge flux, it had done considerable damage. First Aid wouldn’t look at him straight on. Not until the end of the break.

“Megatron,” he said, “We have to talk.”

“Is this about the dream?” he asked. 

“Yes,” said First Aid. “It is. But we have to talk about it in private, no eavesdroppers, okay?”

“My rooms?” 

“No. Oh frag no. No. Not your rooms. The utility closet. On the third floor? That should work.”

“If you insist.” It was odd, but hadn’t First Aid put up with his own panic that evening? Megatron could certainly humor him. 

“Good. After classes. We’ll meet then.” First Aid’s hand darted out to take his, squeeze briefly. “I promise, you’ll understand, okay?”

He smiled at First Aid. “I trust you.”

It startled him that he meant it.

 

* * *

 

He’d get to the storage closet ahead of time, check it for monitoring devices. He wasn’t sure what they looked like, but he’d look them up. There was something seriously bad going on with Megatron under Trepan’s orders. Really, really bad. And if Megatron didn’t remember it, that meant Trepan had erased it, and that made it even worse by a hundred times, because what was so bad that someone like that would _erase_ it. 

He wasn’t totally sure he should tell Megatron about it. What if Megatron would be happier not knowing that something that bad had happened to him? But Trepan was still in a position of power over him. Megatron had to get out, and in order to get out, Megatron had to know. And Megatron had a right to know. Didn’t he?

First Aid squared his shoulders. Whatever it was, he was going to help Megatron escape, whatever it took. Megatron treated him well, wasn’t condescending, didn’t make snide comments. He was one frag of a lot better than the rest of their cohort, that was for sure, and he was a friend. His only friend, if he was to be entirely honest with himself, and he deserved better. Whatever this turned up, they’d face it together.

He set off toward his next class at a determined trot. 

And almost ran right into the enforcers outside the door. 

A heavy servo settled on his shoulder. “Your designation is First Aid?”

“Yes?” he squeaked. 

“We’ll need you to come with us.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Why have you not contacted him?”

It wasn’t Trepan, at least, but the mech staring at him was likely just as dangerous. Terminus looked down, bowed his helm, tried his best to seem submissive. 

“Your schedule matches his,” the mech said. “We’ve assigned you to the same parts of the building. Yet you have made no move to contact him. He has not noticed you. With our arrangements, that does not just happen. Not without someone else interfering.” He leaned over the desk, allowing Terminus a good view of his weaponry, shoulder-mounted cannon, reinforced fists. “Trepan told us that you’d seen the light, Terminus. Trepan told us you wouldn’t be any more trouble at all, and that if he thought you were, he’d come back and strip you of everything that differentiates you from a drone. Do you like that idea, Terminus? Does it appeal? You’re certainly on the right track if it does.” 

Terminus hunched himself smaller. “Please, sir…” he started, desperately placating. But the goon sitting across the table from him wasn’t done. 

“Maybe that would be too much trouble,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up. Terminus tried not to look him in the optics, let the mech see his simmering disdain. He was a bully, a minor bully—but a bully with Terminus’s life in his hands nevertheless. “Maybe we should just put you in the smelter they should have thrown you in the instant you were dug out of that rockslide. You have no place here, not not if you can’t perform your function.”

“I just need more time,” Terminus whispered, the rage roaring up in his spark. His fists clenched, trembling. Hopefully the mech would take the quiver in his voice as fear. “Please, just more time, he’s busy, and my supervisor, and if they see us talking it will raise suspicions…”

“Excuses,” said the fragger, and stood, towering over him. “No more excuses for you, Terminus. You will make contact with him. You will start following him. Or you’ll get the smelter—and unless you come up with a _really_ good excuse, I’m unlikely to go to the trouble of offlining you first.”

“Yes sir,” he said. “I’ll do better, sir, I promise you that. I won’t let you down again, sir.”

Another slow smile. “I’ll hold you to that. Though feel free to fail—I at least will take great pleasure in it.”

He meant it. And Terminus didn’t know if Trepan would care enough to stop him. Likely not. 

He limped from the room, wishing he had privacy in which to vent his rage. But it would not be possible; he had no wish to test how closely they were watching him, and his anger seethed all the worse for his control. He’d thought he’d known what it was to hate when they first had denied him repairs, sentenced him to starve to death, but now, _now_ —oh, this was entirely different. This was a rage that could destroy worlds, he hoped _would_ destroy worlds _, wished_ it might, and he was not sure whether it was for his sake or Megatron’s. 

He composed himself as best he could. He had to wait. He had to play along, because all he could do for that revenge now was live. So much for holding them off by not talking to Megatron. Now what? 

He let out a long vent. Hopefully, Megatron wouldn’t tell him anything too damning. Hopefully that little medic friend of his was his confidant. He stamped back the bitter pang of envy and the vicious longing to take that little medic’s place. For Megatron’s sake, it was better he didn’t. 

He straightened his shoulders. He’d do what he could to stave off Trepan. It wouldn’t be much, but he’d do it. And Megatron need a friend, an _alive_ friend, because if Trepan succeeded, Megatron wouldn’t last a day in the gutter. But Terminus had been through far, far worse. Megatron would need him then. Getting himself smelted would do no good at all.

It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel right. But it was the only thing he could do.

 

* * *

 

First Aid reset his optical band several times. The room was dark, and the pressure of the mecha behind him made his plating flare in nervous instinct. This wasn’t good. This _really_ wasn’t good. Oh frag. He felt silly for wondering it, but if Megatron really was the victim of a mnemosurgeon, did this mean that whoever it was now knew about him? About his searches? 

He’d thought in the back of his processor that he might have been being paranoid, that neither he nor Megatron could be so important that someone would really be _monitoring_ them. The storage closet had been him being clever. These things did not happen in real life, to real people, they just _didn’t._ Maybe he’d failed a test, was on academic probation, something totally unconnected, mundane. That had to be it.

A mech reset his vocalizer, and a light flicked on. There was a table. Chairs. And on the other side of the table, Trepan. First Aid recognized him from his file. 

Trepan smiled, yellow optics amused, and gestured with a hand. First Aid focused on his fingers—not a sign of the needles that tipped them. “Please, sit.”

He didn’t want to. But the mecha behind him pushed him forward, into the chair. 

“Now, First Aid, we recognize your concern,” said Trepan. “It’s a useful trait in a medic. Just what we want to see. But your _application_ of it is inappropriate.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he said.

Trepan tilted his head. “About Megatron.”

“Megatron is a future colleague.” He sounded bolder than he felt. “Why shouldn’t I associate with him, or be concerned for his wellbeing?”

“Megatron will not be ‘a future colleague’,” said Trepan, firmly. “You will do well to stay away from him, for the sake of your career. I know you have no desire to repeat your training.”

“Excuse me?” His voice went shrill at the end of the question. “Excuse me? Are you threatening me to stay away from my _friend?_ Frag _off_. I’m not scared of you, and I’m not betraying him to you, so go—go sit on a _mining drill_ and fragging _rotate_.”

Trepan sighed. “Are you sure?”

“Slagged right I’m sure. Leave him alone. You’ve already fragged with him enough. I’ve heard him screaming.” He glared at Trepan. “And if you want to hurt him again, you’ll have to go through me.”

“Interesting,” said Trepan and rose. First Aid tensed. “He does rather inspire people, doesn’t he. How unfortunate. For you and for him.” He nodded at the mecha behind First Aid.

First Aid tried to rise. Tried to run. But hands on his shoulders and arms slammed him back down into his seat. One bent his helm forward, exposing the back of his neck, and his visor flared in panic as he remembered the diagrams in the textbooks about mnemosurgery. 

“Don’t worry,” said Trepan from his side, from behind him, oh frag oh frag they were going to shadowplay him! His tank clenched in panic and he tried to thrash away from his captors, but they were too strong, fingers denting his shoulders, too big, and he did not move, could not escape, oh frag, was this how Megatron had felt, was this why Megatron had nightmares? “Minimal alterations are authorized for you. Just a tweak of your loyalties, nothing more. Now, don’t resist. Resisting tends to make people leak. We don’t want that happening to one of Cybertron’s up and coming medical minds, now do we?” 

A quiet _snick_ of needles. First Aid whimpered. 

“Shh now. Don’t fight me. It’ll be over before you know it,” Trepan said, in his audial, and the needles stung as they slid in.

* * *

 

Ratchet stretched, rocking up onto the tips of his pedes and hearing the articulations of his back pop back into their optimal configuration. He’d had a good morning in the lab, and now had an hour or so before his next timepoint.

Which was good, because Shockwave had just commed him to say he was in the area, and would Ratchet care to join him for a cube? 

Ratchet had agreed. Shockwave did tend to get up to devious things, but since one of those devious things was funding Ratchet’s clinic, he tended to more or less agree with them. 

When he arrived, the cafe was crowded, which meant lots of noise. Ratchet raised an optic ridge. Shockwave didn’t much like crowds, which meant that today, he had something on his processor. Ratchet smiled. Things had been boring enough recently that this could well be a welcome respite. He made his way over to Shockwave, who had a table in the middle back of the restaurant. 

“Shockwave, good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, old friend. How’s Pharma?”

“His usual self,” said Ratchet. He settled into his seat. “Gloating over a new student of his. How’re you?”

“The usual,” said Shockwave. “A conniving crankcase.” 

“You don’t say. Midgrade, please, lead shavings.” 

“The same for me. How is the academy? Teaching anything? Spoken to old Lathe recently?”

“The usual, no, and no.” The energon arrived. The servers here knew the hierarchy of the academy as well as the academy’s members did. “What are you up to?”

“I have a project you might help me on.”

Primus, it had to be important. He’d copped to it too fast. Ratchet gave Shockwave a very stern look over his cube of energon. “Oh? And what is that?”

Shockwave grinned. “Well, how would you like to give poor old Lathe a bit of a break? He’s been putting off all this time off he’s earned, and his conjunx is getting rather vexed about it. Only problem is, he’s got a student.”

“Oh?” said Ratchet. 

“Half a term of teaching his student,” said Shockwave. “No paperwork, I’ll make sure that’s taken care of. If you think the mech’s a total failure, so be it.”

“One of your outliers?”

“No. Quite the opposite. I just owe Lathe a favor.”

“You’re up to something.”

Shockwave smiled charmingly. “Of course. Will you do it?”

Ratchet snorted. “Out of curiosity, I suppose. Half a term, Shockwave, no more.”

“That’s all I can ask.”


	9. Chapter 9

“First Aid!” Megatron lengthened his stride and caught up with the smaller bot easily. “Did Pharma keep you after? I was concerned—”

He broke off as First Aid turned to look at him, visor dim. 

“Aid, are you all right?”

First Aid looked away, muttered something. 

That wasn’t like him. He was now really worried, reached for his friend’s shoulder. 

First Aid _flinched_. 

Megatron drew back just as quickly. “I’m sorry. I… Aid, did something happen?”

First Aid stopped, still not looking at him. 

Megatron stopped as well, keeping his distance from the other mech. Dread settled in his tank. He thought it was ridiculous, First Aid was a friend, but the dread didn’t abate. Something was profoundly wrong. 

“I need you to leave me alone,” said First Aid, low and clear.

“I don’t understand.” Confusion. Confusion masked the pain, confusion and disbelief. First Aid wouldn’t. He’d withstood the taunts of the rest of their cohort to be kind. First Aid offered comfort, no mockery, when he’d woken them both up screaming in a foolish nightmare. First Aid wouldn’t just…do this. 

“I need you to leave me alone,” repeated First Aid. 

He had no words. He stared at First Aid, stunned. 

“I know what you did,” said First Aid, low and fast, and angry. Megatron knew what he sounded like angry, he’d heard it directed against others on his behalf too many times, and the shock of it turned on him cut as deep as any new scalpel. “I know what you did, you… you…” He looked at Megatron now, visor blazing, as lost for words as Megatron himself. 

“This is yours,” he said after several vents, and flung a datapad at Megatron’s feet. Then he turned and ran, as if he feared Megatron would come after him.

Megatron didn’t know what he’d done. He stood there, then very slowly leaned down to lift the datapad, now cracked. He brushed it off as best he could, not that that would make a difference. Looked down at himself in it, the strange optics and paint job, and tried to remember himself as he had been. Try as he might, he couldn’t recall anything he’d done that might elicit that response, and the thought frightened him.

After a time, he turned and went slowly to his next class. 

The pain didn’t reach him until that evening, as he sat in his window, trying to memorize the components of the filtering system. The memory of First Aid’s face came abruptly back to him, the blaze of his visor, the rage in his voice, and it struck like a punch in the vents. He put aside his notes for fear of breaking them and clenched his hands on his knees, helm bowed. 

What had he done? He didn’t know, didn’t know why First Aid was so concerned about him one moment, and so angry the next. He _trusted_ Aid. He’d thought they were friends. How could it have been brought down so easily? 

What had he done?

He knew Aid. He knew Aid tended toward the forgiving. So whatever he had done, whatever Aid _thought_ he had done, had been terrible. With his own memories, with his own gaps in knowledge, Megatron wasn’t sure he could trust himself over First Aid’s understanding of the situation.

He looked out over the city, and abruptly hated it. 

He didn’t belong here. 

He didn’t belong here and it was laughing at him, everything seemed to be laughing at him. He was some sort of joke, a miner pretending to be a medic, and they’d trapped him in it. First Aid had been some sort of hope, but since when was he so stupid to believe in that sort of hope, that offered by a mech he barely knew. He was trapped here, where he didn’t belong, and the one thing that might have made it bearable had just seen him for what he was—whatever he actually was!—and abandoned him. Typical of this place, of these people! 

As quickly as it had come, the hate ebbed away, leaving him diminished and exhausted, his spark aching. He couldn’t bear the sight of the city. 

For the first time, he drew the blinds over the window, and burrowed himself in under the recharge slab. There, he had a wall at his back and something over his helm, and it felt better. It felt like home.

 

* * *

 

Lathe poured them both drinks of something very near unrefined ore before Ratchet had even sat down, then pushed the larger of the two cubes toward him. “You’re going to want that,” he said. “You and your bleeding spark.”

Both of Ratchet’s optic ridges went up. “Since when do I have a bleeding spark?” he said.“We all know I’m an utter crankshaft who can’t be bothered to grant anyone or anything the barest veneer of civility.”

“You and that clinic,” said Lathe. “That’s enough proof for me.” He looked up from under his helm at Ratchet. “There’s talk and there’s doing, and as you’re the sort who is more fond of doing, this’ll torque you off. You’ll want the drink.”

“I’m not exactly objecting,” Ratchet pointed out, and took a swallow. His optics watered. “Frag. Did you clean this out of someone’s corpse, Lathe? I think slag would be a compliment.”

Lathe snickered. “Foul, isn’t it.” 

“Yes,” said Ratchet, and had another drink. “So. What’s this about this student of yours?”

Lathe sighed. “Yeah. Him. You know I don’t like saying something’s hopeless.”

“Yes.”

“He’s hopeless.”

“Is he.”

“Never seen anything like it before. Oh, sure, he tries. I admire a mech who’ll try. It’s not doing him a lot of good. You can do something with him ten times, twelve times, fifty times, and he’ll still forget it on the fifty-first try. He can’t remember the vocabulary. He can’t write worth slag. He acts like he expects someone to throw him into a smelter if he looks at you wrong. I’ve seen the sanitary crews retain lessons better than him. No, Ratchet, he is _hopeless_ and I quite frankly don’t understand why.”

“And you’ve ruled out common processor skips.”

“Even if I _did_ believe in that, this happens far too often and far too much.” 

“Hm.”

“Primus’s cogs, Ratchet, if you take him off my hands, I’ll owe you drinks for the rest of our functions. I know I’m not the most brilliant mechanism in my generation,” his mouth twisted wryly, “unlike some, but I sure as Pit don’t need another complete failure added to my record. Poor mech. He’s a fragging joke and he knows it. They should have just let him stay in the mines where he’d be able to keep some of his dignity.”

“Are you serious about those drinks?”

“No.” Lathe sighed. “Look, I’m giving you fair warning not to expect anything much. But if you take him, he might stand something of a chance. He needs someone patient _and_ brilliant.”

Ratchet choked on his fuel. “Patient?”

Lathe gave him a look. “Well, the other brilliant mech in our department isn’t exactly known for his tolerance of incompetence. How is Pharma, anyway?”

“Very well,” said Ratchet. “Positively thriving on this little rivalry the two of you have going. You do realize we’re not in medical school anymore, don’t you?”

“Tell that to _him_.”

Privately, Ratchet was more than aware that Pharma was probably the one keeping their little feud going, but he still would have quite cheerfully strangled Lathe anyway. “I’ll look into a transfer,” he said. “What’s his name?”

“Typical miner name. Megatron. Tarnian corruption of ‘Megaton’, I think, you know how they love to stick r’s where they don’t belong. He’s easy enough to spot. Look for the big lout trying to fade into the background and failing miserably.” 

“I shall,” said Ratchet. He wondered how much of the poor mech’s problem was Lathe, then dismissed it as being probably too optimistic, drained the cube. “Thank you for the information, Lathe.”

“No,” said Lathe. “Thank _you_.”

His sincerity troubled Ratchet more than perhaps anything else about the conversation. 


	10. Chapter 10

“And how are things going?” Trepan smiled, condescending, across the table.

Megatron wanted to bristle. He felt like he would have bristled, long ago, wasn’t sure why he believed it so strongly. 

But not now. Not in front of Trepan. Doing anything to anger Trepan was suicide, he knew it. He bowed his helm instead and said, “There is…some difficulty in adjustment. It is…minor, and will pass.”

First Aid was gone. He was failing. He knew that. He knew he wasn’t programmed for this. His processor betrayed him at the oddest of times, stalling on recalling information, or forgetting it entirely. Sometimes things were switched, and these were things he knew with absolute certainty and sometimes they were simply _wrong_. It frightened him. He couldn’t trust his own mind. He couldn’t think about how this could have happened. Every time he tried, it ended in a wall.

So he stopped trying. He did as he was told. He did it as well as he could. But for all that he didn’t think about it, the terror and the _wrongness_ pervaded every waking moment. And this mech in front of him, one he could break with a single blow, this mech was the center of it.

He’d never known a fear like it, so completely focused on one being. 

He couldn’t think about why it might be.

He stayed very still under Trepan’s gaze. If Trepan knew what was happening, how badly he was doing… He knew, rationally, that what they would do was send him back to the mines. He _knew_ that. They’d said it.

But his spark knew otherwise. Being sent back to the mines would be a blessing. They wouldn’t do that. 

He didn’t understand. Why they’d do this. Why they hated him. Why they were pretending, so hard, not to hate him. Why they’d brought him here. 

He couldn’t complain to Trepan. He couldn’t let him know about all the small cruelties, the jibes, the looks—he was a miner, and his colleagues knew it, and they hated him for it. They felt he brought them down. Made a joke of their Primus-given calling. 

“Difficulty adjusting?” Trepan widened his optics in false concern. Megatron didn’t understand why he recognized it as false, but it was. Shouldn’t Trepan be concerned his pet project was failing? But no, his reaction was insincere. Perhaps that was one of the things that frightened Megatron so. “Well. That…is only to be expected. Fortunately for you, I anticipated this.” He touched the comm panel by his elbow. “Send him in.”

Megatron looked back at him with confusion, concern, and he grinned. 

“A friend for you, Megatron. Someone to talk to.”

The door slid open and uneven, halting footsteps entered the room. Megatron turned. And stared.

“Terminus?”

Terminus looked back at him and tried to smile. It didn’t reach his optics, stiff, contrived. “Hello, Megatron.”

He’d thought he’d seen that shape before, hadn’t believed it. He stared up at Terminus, spark in his throat. Terminus would have come to see him as soon as he could. If it was safe.

That he hadn’t…

Primus. He glanced sidelong at Trepan, then at Terminus, and was rewarded with a brief flare of light in Terminus’s optics. 

Terminus didn’t trust him either. 

It was a relief to know who the enemy was. Something of the fear left him, Terminus’s mere presence a relief. He schooled his faceplate into impassivity. 

Trepan cocked his head a little and smiled. “We’ll let you two get reacquainted.” He rose. “Unless there are any other issues, Megatron?”

He didn’t look at Terminus again, not wanting to give that much away. “No,” he lied. “Nothing else.”

“Good.” Trepan paused in the act of turning away, then turned back and put a hand on Megatron’s shoulder. Megatron flinched, involuntary, and the golden optics narrowed. 

“If there is anything wrong, anything at all, you must tell me,” said Trepan softly. “You understand that, do you not? You will be a medic, Megatron. Lives are at stake.”

His intake dried. He felt an utter coward. But he nodded, shakily. “I will let you know about any difficulties,” he said, sounding contrived to his own audials.

Trepan smiled, but there was something hard in his optics. “Very good. That is what I want to hear from such an important project.”

Megatron nodded again, with just as little grace. “I will try to do you credit, sir.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re _joking_.” 

“Not at all,” said Ratchet. Watching Pharma become so angry was far more entertaining than it should be, and he felt mildly guilty. “I’m tutoring him.”

“Don’t _do_ this to me!” Pharma’s wings flared in outrage. “I can’t be connected with…with that fragging joke! You know everyone knows we’re _conjunx!_ ”

“And anyone who actually knows us knows I’ve got the bleeding spark and you’re practical,” said Ratchet flatly. “My political inclinations aren’t exactly secret. There’s this clinic, you see…”

“First Aid would be a credit to both of us,” said Pharma. “And here you are adopting this… this disgrace. Have you seen his scores?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you doing this? You haven’t gone senile, have you?”

“If I had, do you really think I’d notice?” said Ratchet, dryly. “It’s a favor for a friend, Pharma. It’ll be fine.”

“It will _not_ be fine! You’re going to make us look like fools. You’re going to make _enemies_.” 

“I could paper my clinic with my enemies, and you know it,” said Ratchet. 

“They only let you keep that thing because you haven’t torqued off anyone actually important yet.”

Ratchet raised an eyebrow. “Do you know something I don’t know about the situation? What enemies could a _miner_ have? Must be an exceptional miner.”

Pharma folded his arms with a huff. “The Functionists won’t like this.”

“The Functionists don’t like anything. They’ll live.” Ratchet went back to reading the course criteria and the lesson plans Lathe had put together. 

“Ratchet…”

Ratchet raised a hand. “When you can talk to me without screaming, we can resume this conversation,” he said. It would torque Pharma off, but fraggit, he needed room to _vent_ , and to think about this. 

Pharma sighed and threw himself down next to Ratchet. 

After a while he slid an arm around Ratchet, leaned his helm on Ratchet’s shoulder. “Sweetspark…”

“I know you’re upset,” said Ratchet. “I’m sorry for that. But I’m not changing my processor.”

“I know,” said Pharma quietly. He brushed at some dirt on one of Ratchet’s pauldrons. “But I’m _worried_ about you. Every time you go down to that clinic, I’m terrified. I’ve seen the welds from where some addict’s tried to eviscerate you. I saw those threats they sent you. Frag, you remember when I got surprised by those thugs.”

Guilt clenched Ratchet’s spark. Overlord had sent a pair of his bullies to the housing complex, and if those enforcers hadn’t happened to be passing by at that moment… 

“I don’t _mind_ , not when it’s my spark. But when I think about something happening to you,” Pharma’s hand clenched hard on Ratchet’s waist, “Primus, I can’t fragging face it, and you _know_ it. The clinic’s bad enough, and now you’re sticking your neck out even further? Ratchet, please, don’t do this.”

Ratchet sighed and put the datapad down to draw Pharma close to him. “And who’s going to come get me?” he asked gruffly. “Unicron himself, rising from the ground? It’s not like I’m likely to be successful helping this mech. He’s no threat to anyone.” He brushed a kiss against the top of Pharma’s helm. “ _I’m_ no threat to anyone. Anyone in any kind of position of power knows that. I’m just crazy old Ratchet, they know that, and it keeps us safe.”

Pharma sighed. “I’m just worried about when it _won’t_. Sweetspark, I don’t know if your position is going to protect you forever. I don’t know if _mine_ will. I’m hearing things.” He pushed himself up to look Ratchet in the optics. “Just because things have been all right this far doesn’t mean that they’re going to stay that way. There are Functionist officials all over the Academy, haven’t you noticed? And one of them is far too interested in this Megatron, and _I don’t want you in the middle of that._ Dead End thugs and crimelords are one thing, but the Functionists?”

Ratchet smiled, unsettled but in no mood to be frightened by that. “We’ll manage. I’ll keep my helm down, and we still have Shockwave.”

Pharma sighed. “Yes. I hope we _continue_ to have Shockwave.”

“Don’t be so negative,” said Ratchet, leaned in to rest his helm against Pharma’s. “This isn’t my first pitfight, kid. _Trust_ me. It will be all right.” 

Pharma made an annoyed noise against his helm, and pulled Ratchet into his lap. “That’s what you always say. I hope you continue to be right.” A hand pressed against his panel, gentle and inviting for all Pharma’s assumed irritation. “Primus, old mech, why can’t you sometimes let me take care of you?”

“Age before beauty,” said Ratchet, turning in Pharma’s arms to kiss him. He tasted good, he felt good, soft and warm under Ratchet’s lips. “Can’t have you getting complacent too early.” He stroked the edge of one of Pharma’s wings with his free hand, relishing the little noise this got him in return. It was nice to be worried over, as long as it didn’t get too much in the way. “It’s kind of you to worry,” he murmured. “Really, it is. But this is important.”

“Keeping you safe is important, too,” said Pharma, and thankfully let it be at that. 


	11. Chapter 11

The moment they had some privacy, Terminus pulled him into a tight embrace. Megatron returned it without hesitation, as odd a gesture as it was. Terminus had never before been much interested in physical contact. 

“Are you all right?” he asked after a time. “Was the trip from Messatine uneventful?”

Terminus laughed a little into his shoulder, soft and wry. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“It was as good as could be expected,” he said. “I have a job with the sanitation crews here.”

“That’s not fair,” said Megatron. “You’re qualified for far more than that.”

“No,” said Terminus. Flat. Accepting. “No. But you are.”

Megatron looked away, at the window, and said nothing. Terminus pulled away from the embrace, looking critically at him. “What is it?”

“I’m not doing well. At all.” He still couldn’t meet Terminus’s optics. “I’m failing most of my classes, Terminus. Maybe I really wasn’t made to be anything but a miner.”

“Don’t say that.” The sharpness of his friend’s voice startled him into looking up. “Primus, Megatron, don’t say that. You’re the most qualified of any of us to do this. We _need_ you to do this.”

Megatron looked at him with puzzlement. “I can’t be. Terminus, you’re not stupid—you _would_ do better at this than I am. Look.” He seized a datapad and thrust it into Terminus’s hands. “My scores for the last semester. My class rank, for the last semester. I’m not your best hope, Terminus. I can’t be. Because if I am…”

_That means the Functionists are right. We can’t do the things other mecha can._ He didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t need to. 

Terminus looked at the scores a long time, then set the datapad aside and pulled Megatron in tight. “Did you expect this to be easy?” he asked. “You’ve got all sorts of…mining programming cluttering you up. You’re having to do this the hard way, actually learning, instead of putting bits of information in pre-determined spots in your brain. Primus, Megatron, no wonder you’re having a difficult time. It’s all right.”

To his shock, Megatron heard himself make a little whining noise, high-pitched and embarrassing. It felt so good to hold Terminus. To have someone who cared. Someone who didn’t think of him as a monster. Someone he knew would stay with him. 

“It’s all right,” said Terminus again, and if Megatron had been more himself he would have been embarrassed. But the familiar voice was all he wanted to hear, and he curled in tight against his friend’s side, the comfort and relief so acute as to be painful, making the dread of the next day, the next failure, all the worse. 

 

* * *

 

 

Megatron had pressed in close against him and fallen into recharge. Terminus didn’t have the spark to dislodge him. 

He looked down at Megatron and stroked his helm, marveling at being so close to him again. So close, but this time in good repair, without his energon leaking from the stumps of his legs, that familiar growing weakness. So close, and Megatron had his guard down. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen Megatron so open. His spark stirred at the trust it indicated. 

He looked down at the other mech and smiled a little, even with the misery apparent in every line of Megatron’s frame. _It will be all right,_ he wanted to say. _We’re together._

But that wasn’t true. He couldn’t forget it wasn’t true, not with Trepan watching them. Not with what had been done to his mind. Not with what they planned to make him do to Megatron. 

Impulsively, he pulled Megatron closer. Leaned back to lower them both to the recharge slab’s surface, curled around him. 

He didn’t want to let go. Primus, if Trepan ever wanted him to cooperate, offering to make it so he would never have to leave Megatron again—he would do it. He would do it without hesitation, no reprogramming needed. The thought horrified him, but was no less true for the horror. 

The berth was big enough. No doubt medical students were expected to have rather more active interface lives than the sanitation crews. He curled up with his back to Megatron, putting himself between the other mech and the door. 

 

* * *

 

“Ratchet, isn’t it?”

“Mmm.” Ratchet kept his optics on the papers he was grading. Mentoring Megatron had come with some strings attached; he’d had to accept a teaching position for that term, as only active teaching faculty were allowed to mentor. So far, the introductory paper (a hypothetical scenario in which he’d given them a list of symptoms that very much did not correlate to any known illness) had gone badly indeed. Students didn’t like things that refused to fall into neat boxes. Neither did medics. He was cheerfully flunking everyone who didn’t acknowledge certain symptoms in order to make a diagnosis. So far, he’d passed two students, who’d flatly said that they had no idea what was going on and would consult colleagues. One of them was First Aid. The other was Megatron.

“I’m Trepan.”

“Mmm.”

“I greatly admire your work.”

“How nice.” 

“I wanted to have a word with you about your new student.”

Now Ratchet did look up. “If it’s to tell me how unlikely to succeed he is, it will only make me more interested in mentoring him.”

“Of course,” said Trepan with an insincere smile. “I know that very well. I’m sure he’ll have the best chance possible with you.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Can I help you?”

“I just want you to consider the, ah, _political_ wisdom of this decision,” said Trepan. “There are those who are deeply invested in not allowing miners to become medics. They may be, ah, indiscriminate in their displeasure.”

Ratchet raised his optic ridges. “Are you threatening me?”

“Advising.”

“Threatening.” Ratchet leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Let’s not play games, Trepan. I know you and your record. I may not know the exact names of your patrons, but I know what they’re pulling for. And I very much doubt you’re in ignorance of _my_ patron.”

“I am aware of Senator Shockwave’s interests, yes.”

“Then you’re also aware of his influence.” Ratchet smiled. “Don’t push me, Trepan. I know where I stand, and my aft is covered. Is yours?”

Trepan looked sidelong at him. “Political circumstances change,” he said. “People like us should avoid making enemies.”

“Mmm,” said Ratchet, looking back at the papers. “Now go away. I have work to do.”

He waited until Trepan was gone before sitting back with a heavy sigh and pinching his nasal guard. He wondered if he should tell Pharma about this. It would upset him, but it was his problem too. 

But Shockwave still held considerable power. For the moment, at least, they were certainly safe. 

He looked at Megatron’s paper again. Poor slagger. Who knew what he’d done to have so many people gunning for him. Ratchet was looking forward to finding out.

 

* * *

 

First day with a new instructor tomorrow. Megatron only kept himself from wringing his hands with anxiety by holding on to a data pad and muttering through its contents again. Ratchet, Ratchet the Hatchet, apparently had decided to come out of retirement to teach the practical surgery course. The older students muttered about what he was supposed to be like— _worse than Pharma_ , they said, when the first-years were in earshot, and then grinned, congratulating themselves on having dodged _that_ bullet. 

And so far, looking at the assignments, Ratchet the Hatchet sure as frag lived up to his reputation. First that fragging essay—and for Megatron, it had been a special nightmare. Words did not come easily to him. He’d sat up most of the night, painstakingly piecing it together, refusing Terminus’s help. He had to do this on his own. And now, apparently there was going to be a practical. A simple exploratory surgery to check a t-cog, performed on a hologram. But frag, they were expected to learn it out of a book, then perform it in front of Ratchet and the rest of the class while he evaluated him.

Megatron groaned. He was fragged. He was barely passing the _easy_ classes. Ratchet was a fragging _nightmare_ , and these assignments were fragging nightmares, and this was it. He was _definitely_ going to fail tomorrow. Never mind that he could recite the entire surgery by heart, he was _sure_ something was going to go horribly, horribly wrong. 

He looked over at Terminus, blissfully in recharge. Terminus who believed in him far more than he should. He hadn’t seen the quarters assigned to the sanitation crews, but he was willing to bet that this little room was a great improvement. Terminus had mentioned things that made him think that he wasn’t having the best time with the other members of the crews, either. He was more than happy to offer a refuge. More than happy for the company. At this rate, Terminus used his recharge slab more than he did. 

He looked at the time. An hour before class. Time to find some fuel. 

 

* * *

 

 

He arrived on time, still staring at his datapad, the enegex curdling in his tank with anxiety. 

Ratchet was even smaller than he’d expected. Small, red and white, blue optics, hooked nasal ridge, frowning. That frown made up for his size. Someone behind Megatron dropped their datapad with a clatter. 

Ratchet just looked at them. 

“You should know this surgery,” he said. “You’ve certainly read about it enough, if they still teach the way they did when I was a student.” He smiled. It was worse than the frown. By a lot. “If not, well, I’ve given you two days to review it. That should be _plenty_. Now, who’s first?”

He looked over the crowd. Megatron abruptly realized just how tall he was compared to the rest of his compatriots and froze. 

“You,” said Ratchet, pointing at him. “You with the datapad. Come on. We don’t have all day.” Pause. “Actually, we do have all day, but I’ll get bored. Come on. The hologram won’t bite. That’s what I’m paid for.”

Nervous laughter from the rest of the students. Megatron took a step forward, carefully put the datapad down on the tray for personal supplies. 

“We won’t be having you practice scrubbing in because this is a hologram, and I want to have an idea of your surgical knowledge, not your hygiene routine,” said Ratchet. “Come _on._ It’s not going to take any of your fingers off. Now, what are you doing?”

“Exploratory surgery to assess the state of a heavily armored patient’s t-cog.”

“And what circumstances is this used in?”

“When a patient presents with difficulty transforming or any of the associated complaints, but is too heavily armored for a standard medical scan to retrieve accurate data, or when such equipment is not available, or is malfunctioning, and the patient’s condition is time-sensitive. Also an older procedure, from before accurate medical scans.”

“Excellent. You can cogently regurgitate a textbook.” Ratchet turned on the holoimager and a featureless Cybertronian form rippled into being, along with a set of tools. Megatron blinked at him, still trying to figure out how to parse that _excellent_. Ratchet gestured impatiently. “Get to work, kid.”

He took a deep vent, selected the armor-saw, and approached the dummy. He took another deep vent, and started talking, matching his movements to the instructions, measuring, making the first incisions to lift the armor back. Got past the first layer of energon and hydralic lines and—

—it happened. His processor froze. Went blank. He didn’t remember what he was doing. Didn’t remember the next gesture, as many times as he’d practiced it in the air over his desk. Didn’t know which scalpel was the right one. It was as if someone had wiped his mind free of everything. He looked down into the patient’s inner workings, frozen, watched the pulse of energon through the fuel pump, felt the panic well up hard in the back of his throat.

“Calm down,” said Ratchet, sounding very far away. “Lift the scalpel. That’s it. Now, repeat with me…”

He did. Dull, despairing at first. He was going to fail. They didn’t let you continue if you couldn’t do this surgery. He’d been studying for _weeks_ , and he was going to fail.

Soon, Ratchet had him matching gestures to words, completing the surgery, welding the armor shut.

“Now,” said Ratchet, as the holo-tools vanished from Megatron’s hands, “What just happened to—what’s your name, kid?”

“Megatron.” Quiet, grudging. He didn’t want that attached to his name. Not ever.

“What just happened to Megatron here will happen to thirty-six percent of you within the next year. It’s called a processor skip. It happens. If it happens once, it happens again. But it won’t kill your career; there are accommodations. There are accommodations, or we wouldn’t have medics. Accordingly, report it so that you can receive help. Doing otherwise puts your patients in danger. Am I clear?”

“Yes sir,” they chorused. 

Megatron just stepped back. For someone onlined to be a medic, fine. Maybe what Ratchet said was right. But for him—no, he wouldn’t get that chance. Trepan wouldn’t care that it was common. Not at all, just that the mech he’d picked to demonstrate miners could become medics was defective. 

His hands were shaking. He clenched them around the datapad, and wished for the class to be over.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, it was. Megatron turned with the rest of them, but the sound of Ratchet resetting his vocalizer stopped him in his tracks. “Megatron. A moment.”

He froze, forced himself to turn and lift his optics from the ground.

“You know, what was interesting about that is that usually, processor skips affect Forged mecha,” said Ratchet. “My best guess is that you were badly reprogrammed. It’s more common than you might think, actually. There are ways to work around it. I’ve had a few interns with variations on this as well.” He smiled at Megatron. It wasn’t a terrifying smile, which seemed very strange. “It’s nothing to do with whether or not you’re ‘inherently’ suited or unsuited to the work of a medic.”

“Thank you,” said Megatron. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m your new mentor,” said Ratchet. “Dear old Lathe is off for a much needed sabbatical, and I wanted to step in. Make sure that my teaching skills don’t rust.”

Megatron blinked at him. He couldn’t believe it. “Sir… you took me on?” he repeated. 

“Yes.”

“But I’m a failure.”

“You’re still here,” Ratchet pointed out. “And you’ve managed that with a fairly substantial processor malfunction. That’s not failure, that’s impressive. But you’re not going to like the solution.”

“The solution,” Megatron repeated dully. 

And now the terrifying smile made its return. “ _Lots_ of practice,” said Ratchet. “Give me your schedule.”

Megatron did. 

“Hm.” Ratchet did a few things to it. “There you are. See you here first thing tomorrow morning.”

Megatron took the schedule back and stared. Everything he’d thought was free time had been blocked out in red, labeled _practice._ _Practice_ was misspelled. He looked up again. Ratchet was still grinning. 

“Having me as your mentor is going to be a _lot_ more work,” he said, worryingly cheerful. “Now go. Fuel and recharge. You’ll need it.”


	12. Chapter 12

“You’re going to damage him, the way you’re working him. He’s not mining equipment.” 

Ratchet peered over a datapad at the mech who’d just barged into his office, one of the sanitation crew. “And you would be…?”

The mech’s hands clenched in front of him. “Terminus.”

“And the ‘he’ in question would be?”

Terminus looked away. “Your new student. Megatron.”

“Mmm hmm.” Ratchet put the datapad aside. “And this outpouring of concern…?”

“You’re damaging him. He barely recharges. Barely fuels. He’s always working on something or other, always studying—you’re going to break him.”

“Your friend is a whole Pit of a lot tougher than he looks, did you know that?”

“You’re still—,”

“Damaging him. Yes, I know. What’s it to you?”

“I’m his friend.” The other mech lifted his head, glared at Ratchet. “His _only_ friend here, don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Oh, I’m most certainly not his friend,” said Ratchet. “I’m his mentor. I’m here to help him _survive_ medical school. And I know damned well I’m pushing him. If I don’t, he’ll crash and burn. If you’re his friend, you know what that’ll mean for him.” 

Terminus looked down. 

“And maybe you could tell me,” said Ratchet, which prompted a frantic head shake. 

He lowered his voice. “Look, I’m as worried about Megatron as you are. I’m moderately sure that if he flunks, he’ll be found face-down in some gutter somewhere. Probably be ruled suicide. He’s a smart kid. I don’t want that to happen.”

Terminus looked back up at him, optic ridges snapping down. “And how do I know we can trust you?”

“You don’t,” said Ratchet. “You’ve just got my word. How do you know him, anyway?”

“We’re friends,” said Terminus.

“Mm. I see.” Ratchet looked the mech over. Miner, definitely, but the legs… “Who the Pit fitted those things?” he snapped, looking at the ill fit and the way the metals above them swelled with nanite activity. Not perceptible to the untrained optic, but those stumps must hurt. “They wouldn’t know a prosthesis from their exhaust port. Did they even do a follow-up? Primus, mech, how can you fragging _walk?_ Here, I can take a look and adjust them, they’re simple enough— _”_

He didn’t expect Terminus’s optics to go wide with alarm, for the mech to stammer, “They’re fine. I’m fine. Really!” and limp from the room as if Ratchet had threatened to examine his spark, not his legs. 

Ratchet watched him go, folded his arms. “I _do_ have a medical degree,” he muttered after Terminus. Then frowned. 

He was Megatron’s friend, wasn’t he? Time to consult Megatron. 

* * *

 

But Megatron was in just as bad shape as his friend. The scars were just a little less obvious. 

“Megatron, I’d like your permission to examine your brain.” At Megatron’s frankly alarmed and horrified expression, he sighed. “Look, I’m not a specialist. Visual inspection only. What I’d like to do is see if I can’t consult one of my colleagues who is a specialist, and see if the reason behind your processor skips is something to do with your reprogramming. It might— _might_ —give me an idea of it’s easily repairable or not, or if you’re just going to have to learn how to work around it.”

“What would the procedure entail?” asked Megatron, but seemed more curious than suspicious now. 

“You’d remove your helmet, and I’d look at the surface of your brain module with an ultraviolet light, to pick up the scarring. I’d then take about two to three image captures, without any identifying features, to use to consult this colleague. That’s all.”

Megatron hesitated, then nodded. “That would be all right.” He reached up to disengage his helmet, removing it carefully, then slowly shifting the flanges of his protective crest—Ratchet, who knew some mining models had them, but had yet to see one in person, raised his brows; it was quite impressive—out of the way to expose his brain. 

“There you are,” Ratchet said out loud, and lifted the ultraviolet light. “Now, I’m going to dim the lights in the room so the scars actually show up, all right?”

Megatron nodded, jerkily. He didn’t look happy. 

“We don’t have to do this.”

“I know. Please get it over with.”

“All right.” Ratchet dimmed the lights, put a hand on Megatron’s shoulder, feeling the way the mech trembled under his palm. Primus, not a good story here, he was sure of it. He’d seen nothing of the kid’s brain, but he was sure there was something very, very bad under those flanges. “Just hold still, kid. I’m right here.” 

He clicked the UV light on and hissed air through his dentae. He couldn’t help it. He knew better.

But the kid’s processor lit up like a nebula. 

That wasn’t a fragging reprogramming.

“Sir?” said Megatron, very quiet, very hesitant.

_This is a fragging butcher job. No one should have holes like that in their brain._ Ratchet felt sick, wanted to curse, managed instead, “Sorry, kid, first time for me really seeing the result of a reprogramming. Took me by surprise, is all.” He patted Megatron’s shoulder again. “Don’t mind me. Hold still while I get the image captures, and we’ll see what Rung makes of it, all right?”

“His name is Rung?”

“Yep. And if you can remember it, you’ll have a friend for life. Okay, and we’re done. Lights.”

He stepped away, turned off the UV light with relief that he didn’t have to look down at that horrific scarring anymore. Hoped he’d stop looking like he’d seen a ghost before Megatron saw him. “Well,” he said aloud, “It’s definitely beyond my capabilities. We’ll see what we can do, but in the meantime, let’s get back to that surgery, shall we?”

“Practice makes perfect?” Megatron sounded rather wry.

“You said it, not me. Come on, I don’t have all day.” He should say something more, he really should, but if someone had done that to the kid’s processor… 

One of two things might happen if the let this out. They might do worse, and come after him, or they might simply kill the evidence. Primus. No, he was going to sit on this one for a bit. Until, at least, he’d consulted Shockwave. 

* * *

 

Megatron was shaking. He couldn’t stop shaking. Ratchet hadn’t done anything, hadn’t even touched him, but he felt sick. He didn’t understand; he had no memories of being reprogrammed. It couldn’t have been that bad, surely? 

He huddled himself on the recharge slab, looking blankly at the datapad he was supposed to be studying. He closed his optics. Under his helmet, he felt his protective flanges clamp harder around his brain. 

Ratchet had looked horrified. 

Was there something wrong with him? Wouldn’t Ratchet have told him if there was? But Ratchet thought there was something wrong with him, or he wouldn’t have done the scan in the first place. He’d seen Ratchet talk about the most horrifying things without a ruffled plate, things that were incurable, that killed the patient in days, gruesome and agonizing, and yet, Ratchet had been horrified, hadn’t quite managed to wipe it from his faceplate before Megatron had seen it. What the frag could be wrong with him that would make him react like that?

Megatron turned the datapad in his hands, distracted. He quickly lost his place in the textbook, but it didn’t seem to matter. 

First Aid had also been horrified by him. He didn’t know why, even now. Just that it was so bad that the little doctor had fled from him. Refused to have anything more to do with him. 

Terminus treated him as if he were fragile. Terminus! Who knew him better than anyone. Knew what he’d had to survive in the mines.

There was something wrong with him. And whatever it was, it frightened Ratchet. It’d scared First Aid so badly, scared _and_ revolted, that he’d never wanted anything more to do with Megatron. Even Terminus feared it. 

It was something to do with his brain.

He couldn’t imagine what.

He put the datapad down. Gathered his knees up against his chest and stared at the wall. He needed to be studying, to be working, but he couldn’t find the spark for it just now. 

He still hadn’t stopped shaking.


	13. Chapter 13

“This isn’t _working,_ ” snarled Trepan. “They’ve got _Ratchet_ mentoring him. He’ll figure it out, I’m sure.”

“Ratchet is an idealist,” said one of his companions. “He cannot be reasoned with easily. But his _conjunx_ …”

Trepan shook his head. “No. Pharma won’t work. Ratchet didn’t listen to him about the clinic. He won’t about this.”

“What would you recommend? This is, after all, your project.”

Fear drizzled down Trepan’s backstrut. There was an edge to that statement. _You’re on thin ice_ , he’d heard once from an alien during a regrettably unavoidable interaction. Knowing how ice behaved on organic planets, the comparison was apt. Even if he hadn’t known how ice behaved on organic planets, the fallout of that conversation was informative enough. 

On thin ice, and it was beginning to break, thanks to the warm-sparked ministrations of one Ratchet. The bot lived up to his nickname in all areas except for Megatron. What had that slag-sucker done to so enchant a brilliant mind like Ratchet’s?

Alleging that Megatron was fragging his mentor wouldn’t work. People would laugh. Why the frag would Ratchet go for a miner when he had someone like Pharma in his berth every evening? Barring that, there were sexier mecha in the Dead End. A fetish for labor-class frames? Maybe, but that was material for rumors. It wasn’t actionable. It wouldn’t get Megatron kicked out of the medical academy. It wouldn’t disgrace him enough, just Ratchet… and for now, he’d prefer to leave Ratchet alone. The medic was too well guarded. 

“We need to have Megatron expelled.” _And I don’t know how._

“Hm.”

“It’s the only way.”

“It will be difficult.”

“Well, think of something!” Trepan heard his own voice go shrill with panic. Regretted it instantly. 

“Have a care, Trepan,” one of them said. “We’ve been patient so far. You promised us a spectacular success.”

“If we need to take more drastic measures to contain…this experiment,” said another, “we will.”

Trepan nodded, hastily. “After all,” he said, “the mech _is_ disposable class…”

“Yes,” said someone. “He is.”

* * *

 

Terminus came back late. One of the introductory laboratory sections had left the classroom a mess. The instructors most certainly weren’t going to clean it up. He’d spent most of the evening scraping turbofox guts out of the sink; it was a surprisingly warm day, and the drying fluids had formed what was best described as glue. Stinking glue. He never thought he’d think this, but it made him miss mining. 

He opened the door to Megatron’s habsuite and stopped on the threshold. It was dark. He could make out, once his optics adjusted, a huddled mass on Megatron’s recharge slab. He stepped inside.

His hands shook. For a moment he imagined Megatron dead. He could far too easily imagine Trepan becoming impatient, killing Megatron out of frustration. But after a moment, Megatron’s optics flicked on, a dim blue glow. 

Terminus let out a breath. “There you are,” he said softly, and crossed to the recharge slab. After a moment, he climbed onto it next to Megatron. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” said Megatron, too quickly. But he leaned back against Terminus’s shoulder. “It’s fine.” 

“This doesn’t look like nothing,” said Terminus. He reached out, greatly daring, and put a hand on Megatron’s treads. 

Megatron slowly turned to look at him. “Terminus,” he said, hesitated. “Terminus, there’s something wrong with me, isn’t there? The way you act, the way…the way Ratchet—”

Terminus felt his lips lift away from his dentae. “What did he do?”

“Nothing, it’s fine, just—”

_“What did he do?”_

Megatron looked away. “Nothing. He just wanted a look at my brain. See if something about the reprogramming was why I have the processor skips.”

Terminus stilled, torn between delight the bastard of a medic had thought to check, and horror. If the truth got out, if Trepan found out Ratchet was onto him, if his little experiment became public, Terminus had no idea of how he’d react. But he very much doubted he or Megatron would survive. 

“It… It’s unsettled me,” said Megatron, and Terminus could _feel_ him shaking. “I don’t understand. I don’t remember the reprogramming, but I guess I don’t like my brain being exposed.”

Of course not, Terminus thought. The last time it had probably been exposed, it had been Trepan, rooting around in Megatron’s unwilling mind. Had probably had him conscious for the whole thing, if it had been anything like what he’d done to Terminus. Then, he’d erased Megatron’s memories, leaving him with a terror anchored to, as far as he could tell, nothing. 

His hatred of Trepan rose in the back of his throat, venomous and futile. 

“You’re in good hands,” he said aloud, and pulled Megatron closer to him. Megatron moved, wrapped an arm around Terminus in return, clinging with a desperate strength. Maybe he should tell Megatron to get away from Ratchet, to not let him pick his brains—but Terminus couldn’t bring himself to it. Megatron needed all the help he could get. 

“You treat me differently, since the reformatting,” Megatron said, muffled by his chest. “Like you think I might break, if you do something even slightly wrong.”

_That’s because it’s true_ , he wished he could say. Instead, he rested his helm against Megatron’s. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re under so much stress. I would never want to add to it. But Megatron…whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

Megatron lifted his helm away, turned so he could look Terminus in the optics again. He smiled a little, sadly. “Thank you.”

For a moment, Terminus wanted to lean forward, kiss Megatron, curl around him. Show him acceptance. How much he meant this. He’d undergo the _conjunx ritus_ , had either of them anything to give the other, any time for gestures. 

The moment passed. He pulled a little away, alarmed at his thoughts. Hesitated. “Have you fueled?”

“No,” said Megatron.

“First things first,” said Terminus, and coaxed him from the slab and out the door. At least he could do this much.

* * *

 

“It’s a processor skip,” said Ratchet to Shockwave over a cube of energon. “Common, common learning disability in Forged mecha, which is weird, because he isn’t one. Testament we can build things better than God, at least. Cheers me up. Anyway, accommodations can be made.” He looked thoughtful. “I’d bet he didn’t have it before he was reformatted. Bad enough in a medic—patient lives and all that—but in a miner, with no assistance available? Kills you. He’s old enough it should have gotten him by now.”

Shockwave snorted. “Since when does Trepan play fair? He needs your help, Ratchet. And your protection.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Ratchet let out a long huff of air. “I took a look at the kid’s brain. Thought I could talk to Rung about what might have gone wrong, and how to fix it. I’ve got the image captures—”

But Shockwave put a hand on his before he could reach for the datapad, leaned forward, optics suddenly wide. The hand on his tightened to the point of pain.

“Primus, Ratchet,” Shockwave said, and it was the first time Ratchet had ever heard him truly alarmed. “Don’t—don’t ask why he’s like this. Don’t. Just work with him. Help him succeed. Primus, I hope no one noticed.”

“Why?” snapped Ratchet. “In order to figure out how to work with him, I have to figure out what the damage is. And it _is_ damage, Shockwave. Someone did a fragging butcher job on the poor mech’s processor.”

“Because I can’t protect you from everyone,” said Shockwave. “Leave it alone, Ratchet. Just get him through this.” He looked at the pad Ratchet had been reaching for. “Destroy that. Tonight.”

Ratchet carefully withdrew his hand from Shockwave’s. “That bad, huh?”

“I can’t protect you from everything,” Shockwave repeated, and refused to say more.


	14. Chapter 14

Megatron’s friend was in his office again. 

Ratchet raised his eyebrows at the other mech. “Hello. Anything I can do for you, or will you just be yelling at me for treating Megatron like a drone again?”

The other mech had the decency to look embarrassed. “I wanted to say thank you,” he said. 

“For what?”

“Looking…” he trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. “Looking out for him. With the processor skips, and all.” The mech didn’t look up at him, his optics fixed on the ground. Ratchet’s suspicion grew, but he didn’t say anything. He rose and stepped around the table. 

“Least I could do,” he said. “He’s my student, and I will make sure he gets through this. Now, you have your own issue. You want to come with me and get that fixed?”

“I should be working…”

“Nonsense,”’ said Ratchet. “Your supervisor is violating a number of hospital codes, having you run around like that. Maintenance, is it? Well, I know just the mech to contact.” He opened a channel in his commsuite, ignoring the expression on the other bot’s face. “Hello. Grout, isn’t it? Yes. This is Ratchet. I’ve got one of your bots here. He’s got a joint issue; I’ll take care of it. Which one? Firstly, you expect me to be able to tell them apart, and secondly, you mean to tell me you have _multiple_ bots who might be working _on bad joints?_ Tell you what, you don’t ask me for a name, and I won’t mention you said that, does that sound fair? …It better. Or I’m going to have words with someone. And I’ll be keeping a closer eye on your people in the future, if that’s the way you’re doing things. Prompt maintenance, Grout, it’s important, and it’s mandated by the hospital board of governors.” Ratchet grinned to himself. Listening to Grout squirm did something to alleviate the bad mood he’d been in since talking with Shockwave that night. “Good, good. You have a good evening now.”

“Thank you,” said Terminus, once he’d closed the line. “For not bringing my name into it.”

“You’re welcome,” said Ratchet. “I know how that old gasket works. I wouldn’t trust him with a nonsentient drone, the way he treats people, but the higher-ups don’t agree with me. He still threaten you with the mines if you miss time?”

“Regardless of reason,” said Terminus, dourly. 

“Thought as much. Come along.” Ratchet led the way into his diagnostic space. A partly-disassembled drivetrain sat in the middle of one of the benches. Terminus recoiled. “Sorry. Megatron was working on that before you came in; he’s in class. It’s better than a hologram, and don’t worry, it’s just a model.” 

It wasn’t a model, actually, but a teaching specimen. Terminus, however, was skittish enough. Ratchet doubted that assurances that the specimen was ancient would much help the other mech. “Come on, patients over here. Away from the lab space.” He gave Terminus a quick grin. 

Terminus didn’t quite return it, but the mech’s halting steps sped a little. 

“Megatron’s due back in two hours or so,” said Ratchet. “I’d like him to learn how to do this—or at least, whatever’s left of it once he returns. Would that be okay? I expect having a friend around might make it a little less unpleasant.” 

Terminus nodded, jerky. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

“Good,” said Ratchet, and set to work. 

* * *

 

Megatron returned to the lab to find Terminus there, both prosthetics disconnected, and Ratchet next to him working on one of them, talking rapidly but calmly about the mechanisms. He paused in the door. 

“Good to see you,” said Ratchet. “Come over here. I’m going to teach you how to adjust prosthetics.”

Terminus, who’d propped himself up on an elbow to watch Ratchet, managed a weak wave. Megatron smiled in return, and did as he was told.

He’d had no idea Terminus was in such discomfort. He was horrified that he’d missed it, but it was obvious Terminus had tried to hide it from him. Probably because Terminus hadn’t wanted him to worry, he thought, frowning at the mech in question. 

Yes, there it was. Terminus definitely looked guilty. 

Megatron smiled a little at that, shook his helm, and went back to work. 

It was several hours later when Ratchet let him go. Terminus, though they’d finished with him earlier, had elected to hang around, with the excuse that he was testing the prosthetics. 

“You’re good with your hands,” Terminus said, as they crossed the crystal gardens outside of Ratchet’s building. “You did a lot of that without even hesitating. I’m impressed.”

Megatron smiled again. “I’m just glad Ratchet was able to help you,” he said, and Terminus’s hand bumped his. He turned his hand over, instinctively, and on an impulse took Terminus’s. 

Terminus held very still, their fingers laced together. Looked into his optics with surprise. And, if he saw right, no little delight. 

“Tell me if something hurts next time,” he said. “Ratchet will help with it.”

Terminus looked guilty again, so absurdly guilty about his rather minor mistake that Megatron couldn’t help but chuckle. He tightened his hand on Terminus’s. “It’s all right! It’s only because I want to make sure you get the help you need!”

Terminus looked down at their hands. Raised them, then, as if he feared he’d lose his courage, pressed a kiss to the back of Megatron’s. Then started walking again, towing a startled Megatron along behind him. 

 

“Lovebirds,” said Ratchet, and closed his blinds. “Great.” 

Perhaps it wasn’t exactly polite to spy on one’s own protege, but after Shockwave’s refusal, he needed every crumb of information he could get. Everything pointed to Megatron being in deep slag. He wasn’t sure how Terminus fit into the whole mess, just that someone had seen fit to pull him from the mines to—to what? Babysit Megatron? Spy on him, most likely. He bet he’d see the same constellation of wreckage if he looked at Terminus’s brain. He would bet even more that Terminus wouldn’t let him get close enough to do that. He’d been terrified enough over the prosthetics. Yes, probably a spy of some sort for the Functionists, but not one in good odor. Spying was probably intended to be as much of a punishment for him as it was for Megatron. 

Primus, what a fragging mess. 

At least Megatron and Terminus had each other. Even if one of them was a spy. He hoped for the best for them. They probably didn’t have a frag of a lot else to celebrate. 

And at least neither of them seemed to have nearly as nasty a temper as he or Pharma did. Barring Trepan’s meddling, they should be more or less all right.

He packed up his things and started back toward home. He’d destroyed the image captures, as Shockwave had recommended. But he knew better than to think that fixed it all. Someone else could have found out. He didn’t bother with thinking about how impossible it’d be, or of how someone could have possibly overheard them. He just made the assumption that someone would have found out, because the risk of being caught unawares was so enormous. 

He didn’t think they would come after him. He was a far more difficult target, even if whoever was behind this frightened Shockwave. They’d go for the easy prey first. Only if that didn’t work would they aim for him. 

He hesitated. Did he dare put Pharma in such danger? Because if he decided to support Megatron, ensure that the youngster didn’t end up face-down in a gutter somewhere, he wasn’t just risking his own frame, but Pharma’s as well. 

He’d thought much the same about his Dead End clinic. It hadn’t stopped him then. 

He’d already made up his mind, he knew. He felt terrible for it. He hadn’t even consulted Pharma, because he knew what Pharma’s response would be—horror, anger, pleading with Ratchet to consider his career, _their_ careers. He remembered Overlord’s thugs on their stoop. The people that might come after them were worse than Overlord’s thugs, he knew that intellectually, but not really. He couldn’t imagine much worse. 

But he couldn’t let Trepan and his friends doom that bright, earnest young mech whose mind they’d already brutally savaged. He couldn’t stand letting Terminus return to ill-fitting, agonizing prosthetics, or to none at all and a death of starvation. He couldn’t. It went against every strut in his frame. 

Ratchet stepped out into the evening, sighed heavily, and went home to Pharma, feeling both tired and angry. He hoped Pharma was in a good mood. He was in no mind to be the bigger bot. 

* * *

 

He got the message the next morning, hastily scrawled on a piece of scrap metal and slipped to him in the corridor. 

_Megatron just called into Program Director’s office. Help him._

_—T_


	15. Chapter 15

Neither of them was ready for interface. They figured that out early on. They wanted to, but it seemed too soon. It would be a _one day_ sort of thing right now. 

Megatron, instead, bought them energon from a small restaurant. It was the first time Terminus had been to a restaurant, and he sat with great interest, unsure of what to expect from his flavored energon, amazed at the people passing by. He’d been in mines his entire function, or shuttled between them. He’d taken his rations, a miner’s only form of pay on the distant planets he’d been assigned to. None of the mining outposts he’d been on had been like Megatron’s first, where their rations had been supplemented by the very occasional shainx, often too little to buy the quantity of energon that otherwise would have been provided through their rations. 

So Terminus sat and was amazed, and Megatron watched him, feeling the altogether stupid smile on his face and not caring. It was about time he could do something for Terminus, who had done so much for him. Had followed him all the way back here, had been such an emotional support to him in these last weeks. It wasn’t just Ratchet who’d brought his grades up; it was Terminus too, Terminus’s friendly, undemanding presence. 

For a moment, he dared to think of the future. If he did make it through, he would be a medic. He would make enough to support both of them. Maybe even make enough to support Terminus through the function exempting process, get him a job that didn’t demand heavy labor. Academic editing, something like that. 

He wanted to see Terminus happy. There’d been enough unhappiness for the both of them. But especially Terminus. 

He loved Terminus.

He wasn’t sure where it had come from. The last few weeks, he’d felt it but not named it, but anything before his reprogramming was an uncertain haze. Was it from then? He knew Terminus had been present then. He knew he’d trusted Terminus, had been greatly fond of Terminus. That the two of them had held the same ideals. Terminus had encouraged him—

…to what, exactly?

He frowned. He’d run across another blank in his mind, and he didn’t like it. This one felt important. To his spark. To the mech sitting across from him. Some blockage in their relationship. 

He felt a small curl of anger, but then their energon was placed in front of them, and he wiped the discontent from his faceplate before it could be seen. Instead, he watched Terminus sample his energon, incredulously tentative. It made him chuckle, particularly as Terminus apparently found he quite liked the flavor, and drank with barely-restrained eagerness. 

They could do this more often, he thought. If he made it through. 

He would make it through. This was more of a reason than any of his abstract imaginings. Terminus pleased and a little wondering. Terminus happy. The wrongs of their past made right.

Where had that thought come from? It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, a quicksilver flash. 

Terminus noticed nothing of his inner turmoil, and they stepped back into the evening. They didn’t quite dare to touch, not on the street, but once Megatron’s habsuite door closed behind them Terminus’s arms were around him. Greatly daring, Megatron leaned forward and kissed him full on the intake, delighted at the noise he made, at the way Terminus’s arms came up to catch at his helm, the way Terminus’s mouth slanted over his to gain better access. He could still taste the energon on Terminus’s glossa—Terminus was right, it was delicious. With a little moan, he allowed Terminus to push him up against the wall of the habsuite, glad of the support at his back. He ran hands up and down Terminus’s waist, back, reveling in the hot metal under his fingers, the thrum of Terminus’s powerful engine, lost himself in the smell of oil and hot metal. He didn’t want to stop. 

Terminus lifted away from his mouth and kissed down his neck cables. Once over his spark. Stepped back and guided them to the berth. “It’s already late,” he said, soft, vocalizer fritzing.

Late, but Megatron’s frame thrummed with excitement and joy. He allowed himself to be led, settled next to Terminus and curled himself around the other mech. Nuzzled his neck cables in turn, wrapped his arms around him and clung. 

Terminus laughed a little, as if Megatron weren’t the first such clingy lover he’d had. Megatron himself was taken aback at his own feelings; he was experienced, but his brief relationship with Impactor had been one altogether more carnal. More of a friendship, punctuated by enthusiastic interface. Not this tenderness. Not this type of feeling, this reluctance to be separated. This delight in cuddling alone. 

He rested his helm on Terminus’s shoulder, and smiling, slid into recharge. 

* * *

 

The next morning, one of the clerical bots pulled him aside. “You’re wanted in the program director’s office,” he said. “Come along.”

Megatron followed. “Sir, I have class in ten minutes.”

The bot snorted. “That’s the last thing you should be worrying about. Hurry up.”

Megatron hurried, dread curling around his spark. He saw Terminus out of the corner of his optic as he made the turn into the office, saw the alarm on the other mech’s face, and then the door closed behind him. 

Leaving him standing, alone, before three other mecha, all painted like medics. Trepan stood in the back, looking solemn. 

“Megatron,” said the first mech. “Have a seat.”

He sat, the dread rising in his intakes. Looked around. Not a single friendly face here.

“We have your grades from last term,” said that same mech. The program director. Megatron glanced at Trepan in the back. 

“Cumulative, of course,” said another of them.

“Yes, of course.”

A long silence. Megatron closed his hands over each other to keep them still. 

“Well, there’s no point in drawing it out,” said the program director, a harshness to his words. “Megatron of Tarn, you are not preforming at the levels this institution expects. You’ll be dismissed. I doubt you’ll have much to pack.”

“What?” he said, all he could manage, and it came out small and brittle. Weak, and briefly he hated himself for it. 

“I doubt you have a malfunction with your audials, mech,” said the program director. “That’s all there is to it.”

“But I’ve brought them up, this term,” he said. Plaintive. He hated the way he sounded. He wanted to shout at them, throw the injustice of this back in their faces, but he could not. It would only make him look like a brute. 

“Too little, too late,” said someone else. 

He dared look up at Trepan. Trepan looked sternly back at him, and the utter disappointment in the golden optics made him bow his head immediately. 

“One more term,” he heard himself say. “Please. Let me finish this term. I’ll make you proud, I swear.”

“No,” said the program director. “We’ve reached our decision, Megatron. There’s no point to protesting.”

“My grades this term have been improving,” he said. “Just give me this one term, I won’t let you down.”

There was a little sigh from one of the mecha sitting next to the program director. “It’s not about blame at this point,” he said, with a false sort of kindness. “It’s about what’s best for _you_ , Megatron. We want you to be happy.”

“And obviously, that’s not here,” said another. “We know you’ve been working very hard—as he said, there’s no blame. You’ve done your best. We don’t want you to be stuck here, feeling second-class and working three times harder than anyone else to no effect. No, this is not right for you, and we don’t want to force you into it.”

“That’s right,” said the program director. “Frankly, we’ve never seen a student work as hard as you have. But what matters are results. You’ve been online a while now, Megatron. I’m sure it’s a strain on your dignity to always be playing catch-up to a batch of newsparks, and it’s not working. We shouldn’t keep forcing you into this position.”

“But I don’t _mind_ ,” said Megatron, desperate. Angry. Who the frag were they to decide this was too much of a strain?

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Megatron,” said the program director, and Megatron saw a flicker of anger in his optics. “As I said, we’ve made our decision, and it’s not up to debate—the frag is going on out there?”

Megatron startled at his raised voice, looked over his shoulder. There seemed to be a certain amount of shouting going on in the corridor. Then a door slammed and something went thud. 

The clerical bot showed up again in the doorframe, looking harried. “Sirs. Ratchet would like—”

He was whisked out of the way by Ratchet himself, who swept in and slammed the door shut with a fist on the controls behind him. 

Silence. 

“Since when,” said Ratchet, sounding pleasant, “is it the custom at this institution to hold a hearing for academic underperformance in the absence of the student’s mentor?”

Megatron dared a glance back at the panel. 

Everyone was looking uncertain. Even the program director. 

“Er,” he said. “Since this is, um, an extraordinary case…”

“The short answer is, since _never_ ,” said Ratchet, and settled himself on the desk _._ “Hello Trepan, nice to see you. Does this actually have anything to do with you? I didn’t know it was a practice to let non-faculty in on these things, Carapace. And I just re-read our policies yesterday, imagine that.”

Silence again.

“Student confidentiality,” said Ratchet, cheerfully. “Oh, and these are supposed to take place at the end of semesters, aren’t they? Student’s also supposed to have sympathetic representation. And be given two weeks to prepare their statements.”

Megatron dared another look at Trepan. The little mech looked like he wanted to strangle Ratchet. There was an audible click as his needles slid in and out, a sound that sent pure terror lancing through Megatron’s spark. He mastered himself with an effort, looked to where Ratchet sat, smirking.

“This is so very irregular,” said Ratchet. “It can hardly be an official meeting at all, can it? Because if so, you’ve violated a lot of your very own rules. If Megatron chose to challenge any decision made in this room, it would be very difficult to mount any kind of defense.”

“We were merely informing him he was on academic probation—,” started the program director. Ratchet waved a finger at him.

“Ep ep ep, no. That requires all the things I just listed. Not going to work.”

Silence again.

“An informal notification to the student that he _might_ be placed on probation.”

“Then what’s he doing here?” Ratchet pointed to Trepan. “You going to fix the ham-handed reprogramming job?”

“It needs no fixing,” said Trepan. 

Ratchet snorted. Turned his attention back to the program director. _Stared_. 

“Um,” said the program director. Looked around. Looked at Ratchet. “A, um, friendly chat? With people…invested in the project!”

“There we go,” said Ratchet with great satisfaction. “Well, as the person best qualified to represent Megatron’s academic progress, let me say that I am _delighted_ with his work. Rarely have I had such a willing and able student. Of course, he has a slight processor skip, but so do so many of our Forged medics. We are, of course, _absolutely_ capable of handling this.” His grin grew wicked. “As I’m sure several in this room can attest. After all, I did teach at least two of you drivetrain anatomy, and I should hope it stuck.”

“You’re joking,” said Trepan flatly. 

“Not in the slightest. Thank you, Trepan. To think you found this little gem at the bottom of a mining shaft. Well _done._ ” He looked around at the stunned faces. “Well? Does that cover it? I think that covers it.”

“Yes,” said the program director, faintly, as the mech on his right mumbled over the components of the drivetrain, “yes, Ratchet, thank you. Your feedback is invaluable. Well done, Megatron, keep up the good work. Almost to your exams, aren’t you?”

“On which he’ll excel, I’m sure,” said Ratchet. “Come on, Megatron. Stop lollygagging. We haven’t got all day.”

Megatron allowed himself to be hauled out of the room, down the corridors to Ratchet’s office, and into the lab and examination room. When Ratchet let go of him, he crumpled like a drone with its battery removed and shook. 

Ratchet thumped him on the shoulder. “Get it out of your system,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ll be in my office.” 

Megatron waited for him to leave, then covered his face with his hands. 

Oddly enough, it wasn’t his near-expulsion that terrified him, but the sound of Trepan’s needles _click-clicking_ in and out of his fingertips. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless robot smut.

After several months of studying, Megatron did well in the next round of exams.

Ratchet took them both out to dinner. He looked across the table at them over steepled fingers and frowned. 

“I’m sure you two have a good idea of how much danger you’re in,” he said. 

Megatron looked at him with an expression of confusion. Terminus looked down at the table. 

“Which is to say, quite a bit of it,” Ratchet said after a moment. “And it’s only going to increase after you finish. You have a little time to study for your exams. Megatron, I expect to see you in my office _every_ day. Terminus, whatever help he needs at home, give it to him.”

They both nodded this time.

“I think the next thing they’ll try to do is ensure that you don’t get a mentor for your apprenticeship. I’ll step back for a while, see if anyone else picks you up—not because I don’t want to mentor you, but because I want to make it clear you can do this on your own. If no one does, I will bring you as my apprentice to the Dead End clinic. It’s hard, unthankful work, but you’ll see a lot more there than you’ll ever see at the Iacon Medical Center. After that, you’ll be passed as a medic. They’ll probably want to do an extra verbal exam. We’ll prepare you for it. Either way, once you pass your upcoming exams, you’ll qualify as a technician. That’s better than nothing, and should support the two of you just fine.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at them. “That’s without accounting for whatever wrenches our friends will throw at us along the way. What those are is a very good question indeed. I’m not going to waste time guessing; either we’ll deal with them or we won’t.”

“I understand,” said Terminus. He looked Ratchet in the optics. “And thank you.”

“I wouldn’t have made it this far without you,” said Megatron. 

“Oh, don’t be maudlin,” said Ratchet. “He’s my student. I did nothing out of the ordinary. Drink your energon.”

The two shared a conspiratorial grin, and did as they were told. Ratchet watched them, smiling. “Seriously kid. Enjoy this. You’ve earned every bit of it and then some.”

Megatron gave him a small, shy smile. “Thank you,” he said. 

* * *

 

“Can we?” asked Terminus that night, and put a hand on Megatron’s hip. Megatron didn’t need to hear more, nodded hastily and locked the door. Things felt right in a way they hadn’t before. He’d done well in his exams. They might have a future. And the initial awkwardness was gone. He was comfortable enough in this now to know he wanted it.

Terminus guided him to the recharge slab, urged him to lie back against it. Bent and captured his lips in a long slow kiss, ran hands along his sides. Megatron returned the gesture with enthusiasm, kissed back hard. He felt his fans spin up, frame vibrate with excitement. Finally. There had always been something in the way before, shyness, lessons, shift schedules. 

Terminus pulled himself up after him, sat with his back to the wall and Megatron facing him, his legs hooked around Terminus’s back, Terminus’s arms steadying him. Terminus leaned in for another kiss, harsher, more demanding, and Megatron rubbed the insides of his treads as he responded, enjoying the hitch in Terminus’s ventilations. One of Terminus’s hands dipped down to his hip, fingers and thumb rubbing slow circles. Terminus’s pelvis twitched, canted against his, bringing their panels into contact. Megatron gasped, his grip tightening, as the movement sent white-hot arousal through him from interface to spark. Terminus ground leisurely against him, one long roll of the hips. 

“Valve or spike?” 

Megatron gasped. “I…I don’t have a preference.” 

Terminus’s fingers dipped into the wiring of his hip and toyed with it. Megatron leaned his helm on Terminus’s shoulder and panted. He tried to bring his own hand to touch Terminus’s panel but didn’t have the mind to do much with it. 

“Just relax,” said Terminus. “I’ll be happy if you’re happy.” 

Megatron managed a nod. Terminus’s hand slid around to his front and started playing with the edges of his panel. 

It was a matter of moments before he opened it. Terminus smiled a little, circling the head of his spike before moving down to his valve. He dipped in between the folds, gathering the lubricant already seeping out, ran his finger back and forth over Megatron’s entrance. Megatron whimpered, the sensation nothing like being penetrated, frustrating and promising. The pad of Terminus’s finger flicked over his anterior node, a quick, light touch, and he drew in a quick, light vent. 

“Don’t worry about being noisy,” said Terminus, grinning. “Your neighbors have been rude enough; it’s about time you got revenge on them.”

That made Megatron breathe a laugh, one quickly lost in a high pitched noise as Terminus turned his full attention to his anterior node. He found himself thrusting into Terminus’s touch, tempted to take his own spike in hand—but at the same time, he wanted only what Terminus was giving him. 

“Go on,” said Terminus, deciding the matter for him. “Touch yourself.”

Megatron carefully wrapped a hand around his spike as he usually did when self-servicing, feeling oddly shy under Terminus’s gaze. He began to move, slowly, then faster as need overtook him and he fell back into familiar patterns. He opened his mouth to pant, looking down at himself and Terminus’s fingers over his node, and Terminus brought his other arm around, pressed a finger under Megatron’s chin, bringing his face up and kissing him again. His glossa pushed into Megatron’s mouth, gentle but insistent, and at the same time he slid a finger into Megatron’s valve. 

Megatron clung to him, pressed his face into Terminus’s shoulder as Terminus broke the kiss. His hand stilled on his own spike; he’d never felt so sensitive before, as if every node registered the single finger. 

Terminus slid in and out, gentle, slow, added a finger. Megatron moaned, arm tightening on Terminus’s shoulders. He was getting impatient. He thrust forward into the touch with a needy sound. 

Terminus chuckled. His fingers moved in Megatron’s valve, spreading. Megatron grunted. It felt good, but still not enough. He was used to being pressed down over a berth and fragged. This was nice, but enough teasing!

Another finger. It was closer to what he wanted, but the unstimulated deep nodes in his valve ached, unsatisfied. Megatron bucked his hips again, prompting another laugh. Terminus’s thumb rubbed over his anterior node with quick, light movements. 

The overload hit him without warning. He panted, his abdomen and hand suddenly coated with transfluid. Terminus’s fingers seemed very big in his suddenly sensitive valve, and it was a relief when they withdrew. He dropped his hand from his spike, braced himself on the berth so he wouldn’t collapse on Terminus, who was biting possessively at his neck cables, a sharp stab of pain that sent heat into his valve. 

“Up a little,” said Terminus, when Megatron’s shaking stopped, and Megatron with an effort shifted to kneel over him, hands braced on the wall to either side of Terminus’s helm. Terminus leaned up, kissed him, his panels clicking aside.

Megatron tried to look down at him, but his own chestplates got in the way. He could feel Terminus though, the blunt nudge at the edge of his valve. Terminus reached down around Megatron and took his spike in hand, stroked it. His other hand grasped Megatron’s hip, guiding him a little to one side. “There,” he said. “Now back down.” His hand tightened on Megatron’s hip as Megatron pushed down. “Slowly now.”

Megatron glared at him. “Slagging tease.”

“Someone has to teach you patience. Slowly, dearspark.” The hand guided him down, agonizingly slowly. Up a little as the head of Terminus’s spike met resistance. Megatron growled, cut short as Terminus kissed him again. “Patience. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not made of crystal,” Megatron said, but the little rocking thrusts of Terminus’s spike at the edge of his valve made it hard to think, each one pushing further in. Finally, the whole head was inside him, and he made a low noise of satisfaction and sank down on it before Terminus could halt him, reveling in the way his partner’s optics flared and his mouth fell open. 

Terminus panted, and Megatron grinned, a grin which turned into a startled gasp as both of Terminus’s hands clamped around his hips, holding him in place. Terminus shivered, obviously mastering himself, then circled his hips slowly. He lifted, Megatron moved with him, delighting in the scrape of a spike over sensors, but it seemed he’d hardly moved a handspan before Terminus halted him. 

“What are you _doing?_ ” he hissed. “Frag me already!”

Terminus cocked an eyebrow at him, then thrust up. Megatron’s hands clenched against the wall, opening and closing as Terminus guided him up and down, his spike thrusting hard into Megatron’s valve, short, sharp movements that drove the breath from his vents. 

“One more overload,” said Terminus, panting. “One more overload and then—then, if you still have the strength, that is—then we do it your way.”

“Age before beauty?” said Megatron, which made Terminus laugh. 

“You sound like Ratchet.”

Terminus’s movements sped. It seemed he finally was finding it difficult to contain himself. Megatron leaned his helm against Terminus’s and offlined his optics, losing himself in the sensation. Terminus pulled almost all the way out, then back in, Megatron moving down to meet him. Megatron could feel his overload approaching, the sharper edge of pleasure, and stilled, not wanting to approach it too fast. Terminus stroked his helm. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Close,” Megatron said between gritted dentae. “Just…so close.”

Terminus slowed for a few thrusts, kissed him, long and slow. Megatron shook, on the very edge. Then Terminus moved, fast and hard, and Megatron’s optics snapped back online, mouth opening in a strangled cry, as he tipped over. He felt Terminus overload in him, a hot charge crackling over his nodes, and heard him make a small click as his vocalizer reset. 

They stayed like that for some time, Megatron’s arms around Terminus’s shoulders, before Megatron gave into his strained mechanisms and slowly lowered himself onto Terminus’s spike, letting out a long vent as it stretched him wide. “My turn?” he whispered, though he felt tired and shaky. “In a moment, though.”

Terminus nodded against him and leaned up for a kiss. 

Megatron leaned against his chest after that, enjoying the feeling of Terminus in him. Little flickers of charge flitted through him with every shift of his weight, and the stretch, the reminder of their closeness, made him let out a little shivery ventilation. 

After a long time simply leaning against each other, Megatron rose up on his knees, bracing himself again on the wall. Terminus reached for his waist, lightly resting his hands there. Megatron smiled down at him, and began to move, slowly at first, then, as his charge began to climb, he sped up. He’d loved riding Impactor, could bring him to overload multiple times before his one, and though Terminus seemed altogether more patient, he was quite sure that Terminus would be no different. 

Sure enough, Terminus shuddered and stiffened in a second overload before Megatron had finished, and leaned back against the wall, optics half-powered, watching him. “A little faster,” he said, after a time, and Megatron happily obliged. 

He reached his peak soon after, slumped against Terminus again, who stroked his helm and back, murmuring praise. It was some time before they disengaged, Megatron looking ruefully down at the quantity of fluids that left his frame. “Good thing the washracks are next door,” he said. 

Terminus laughed a little as well, and tossed him a cloth.


	17. Chapter 17

The next few months were utterly blissful. Megatron didn’t have any classes; he was expected to be studying. It translated to far more time together. Terminus delighted in spending as much of that time as possible fragging Megatron into a happy strutless heap. And while Megatron had had an active interface life in the past, it was rather limited. Most miners didn’t have mouths; no one had bothered to design them with mouths, and so oral pleasure was largely a password-locked datapad to Megatron. Neither had he done much with his diagnostic port, the sensitive secondary structure that sat dorsal to the valve. Originally intended to allow a medic to take internal diagnostics of cold-constructed mecha, it had been rendered obsolete by upgrades in medical scanners, and retained largely for its, ah, _recreational_ benefits. And the fact that the factories hadn’t bothered to change the molds, which likely would have cost them extra. 

Besides, even Forged mecha were frequently retrofitted with them now; they’d been smoothly integrated into standard Cybertronian design. Megatron had never used his, a sensible precaution in the mines—it did not produce lubrication and was not self-cleaning as a valve was. Grit, once introduced, was difficult to get out, at least, without a proper washracks at one’s disposal. Terminus knew _that_ from his adventurous youth, but Megatron, when younger, had not been adventurous. 

Now, though, in a proper habsuite with a washracks, he was getting more so. Terminus was enjoying every moment of this. Megatron was a delightfully responsive partner, the little sobs and whimpers he made while being eaten out the sexiest thing Terminus had ever heard. Taking his secondary port for the first time had been incredible. After careful stretching and lubrication, during which he’d overloaded several times, he’d overloaded again the instant Terminus was inside of him, the tight hot squeeze of his port driving Terminus over with him. 

Megatron was an incredible frag, and after centuries of nothing more than frantic couplings in dark corners, eager to learn. His previous partners had certainly taught him some things, but nothing particularly creative. Megatron, they’d both found, _liked_ creative. A lot. And could keep going for more or less forever.

Terminus smiled a little to himself as he worked, looking forward to returning home that evening. Even when they weren’t fragging, the company was nice, Megatron leaned up against him and muttering through structures. The exams were a handful of days away, but he was confident for the first time—Ratchet, bless the evil glitch’s spark, had been driving Megatron through simulation after simulation of the exams, and Megatron’s scores had been steadily climbing. He was ready. And if he failed, Ratchet said, there were options. Terminus believed him. With a patron like that, he doubted they were going to end up on the street. 

But he doubted Megatron would fail. Ratchet had said his brain itself was restructuring around the damage, learning to convey signals in new ways the more he practiced. He might come at some things sideways, Ratchet said, but he’d get there and that was what was important. The amount of ‘sideways’ amused Terminus—there were some bits of information Megatron recalled by moving his fingers in certain ways, tapping parts of the wall in their room, and so on. 

“He’s good at spatial awareness,” Ratchet said. “And reasoning. Frag, he’d probably be one Pit of a dancer, or a fighter, if he got the training. He’d be terrifying in the air, if he had the right alt-mode; he is very aware of everything around him, and he tracks things in motion extremely well. Even if he’s not looking at them. So, we’re attaching bits of information to objects. Having him build a room for the information within his processor. It seems to be working very well.”

He agreed with Ratchet, and privately was appalled at the mech’s suggestion that Megatron might have been better suited with a flight mode. Who dared to say things like that? Ratchet had to be very well-protected indeed. He even had a mate, and he wasn’t scared? 

But his methods worked. Megatron wandered around the room, muttering things, and then, when he’d internalized the material, sat on the berth and muttered things as he wandered around a mental version of the room, and Terminus started to hope.

Trepan was outraged by his reports. He loved that. He felt like he finally had the upper hand, and Trepan didn’t, and every time Trepan tried to press him further he could just say, “I can’t let Ratchet or Megatron get suspicious,” and Trepan would relent. Trepan had the hunted look of a mech losing support, and it delighted Terminus no end. Add to that Ratchet’s adjustments of his prosthetics, and he’d not been happier for at least a century. There was no more aches, no more swelling, no more blistered metal. 

Ratchet, for all his privileged position, wasn’t so bad after all. 

Terminus hummed a little, finishing tidying up a lab, then stepped into the corridor. Put his materials away, and he could go back to the habsuite and Megatron. If Megatron was feeling up to it, he had a few ideas for how to spend the evening.

Trepan reset his vocalizer just behind Terminus, and Terminus flinched. 

“Back into the classroom,” said Trepan, silkily. He looked smug again. Terminus felt the energon in his tank curdle. Enjoying Trepan’s discomfort in no way meant he wasn’t still scared of the mech. 

He shuffled back into the lab classroom he’d just finished cleaning, put his cleaning supplies down, and looked at Trepan.

“You’ve given us a bit of a breakthrough,” said Trepan. “Unintentionally. But really, Terminus. A maintenance ‘bot fragging a medic? How indecent.”

Terminus’s spark plummeted. He looked down. There was nothing for him to say. 

“Of course, we did tell you to get close to him, so perhaps you took that a little _too_ much to spark,” said Trepan. “But you do know, if he passes his exams, you can’t stay with him. You can’t bring him down like that. Primus! The gossip alone would keep him from ever finding an apprenticeship, let alone receiving an appointment. No, Terminus. If he passes his exams, you will have to say goodbye to him.”

“Is that a threat?” He shouldn’t have said it, he knew as soon as the words left his vocalizer, but he didn’t care. 

“It’s a statement of fact, Terminus. If Megatron becomes a medic, you can’t keep on like this. You see why the system _is_ the system. It’s certainly natural for two of similar frametypes and experience to find such affection for each other. In the mines, it would be _admirable_. Two bots of equal stature, _true equals in every way_ , sharing such a profound bond. In private, of course. But now that Megatron has excelled, outpaced you, there’s no way that society would accept your perfectly natural love.” He shrugged a little. “But if Megatron fails, well, you two could return. Together. Why, I’d help you with all the recognitions of _conjunx endura_ , if you two chose that path. All the legalities and so on. There are such a lot of them, if you want it properly done.”

Terminus gaped at him. Outrage made the lights on his helm flicker briefly. 

“Very generous of me, after all,” said Trepan, looking down at his fingers. He slid his needles out and examined them. “Very generous indeed. It’s taken you by surprise. But we _know_ you’ve done your best.” He glanced briefly at Terminus, whose optics had been caught by the needles. 

Terminus reset his vocalizer, trying to tamp down his fear. 

He’d once thought that, given a choice between sabotaging Megatron and losing their relationship, he’d do the former. But now, with Megatron so close, he couldn’t. Taking this chance away from Megatron, when Megatron was a breath away from becoming the first miner to become a medic, would be as good as killing him, in spark if not in frame. 

He couldn’t do that to the mech he loved. 

Even if it meant returning to the mines.

He couldn’t take his optics off the needles. 

Would Trepan _dare_ shadowplay him, here, now, if he refused? He wanted to tell the little mech to frag off. He wanted to tell him exactly what he thought. He wasn’t sure he dared to.

But he wouldn’t _cooperate._

He fell back on the lesson he’d learned all these months ago—when Trepan asked something, lie.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. Proper recognition—I’ll do everything I can, sir. I promise.”

“Of course you do, Terminus.” Trepan smiled, likely at his fear, and slid the needles away, grinning more broadly at the way the tension went out of Terminus’s shoulders. “You are so very cooperative now you’ve ben readjusted. We’ll get you proper legs soon, too. You’ll do everything you can. Of course we can’t ask more than that, can we? And really, my condolences. I didn’t realize you and he might have romantic interests. It was cruel to single one of you out and leave the other behind.”

“Thank you,” said Terminus. “Thank you. I couldn’t bear being parted from him.”

He better have sounded like he meant it. He _did_ mean it. But Megatron succeeding was worth his broken spark.

One thing was certain, however. Terminus waited until Trepan was gone to even think it, as if the mnemosurgeon could read his thoughts across the room.

Megatron couldn’t know about this. Not until after the exams. No matter how they dragged him away, he couldn’t let Megatron be distracted. Megatron would be sparkbroken, too, but Terminus had told him long ago, in a conversation Trepan had taken from him, that he must be resigned to becoming a figurehead. This wasn’t the way in which it was supposed to happen; he would be a medic saving sparks rather than a revolutionary inspiring them. But he would be a figurehead, and figureheads had to make sacrifices.

It bothered him not at all that he was making the decision to make this sacrifice without Megatron’s permission or input. 

Some things were more important than individuals. 


	18. Chapter 18

He passed.

Megatron held his diploma in trembling servos. Ratchet thumped him on the shoulder. “Fraggit, kid,” he said. “With your scores? I think I’ll just take you on anyway. No performative waiting around for someone else to snap you up; I don’t want to risk it. Now, you’ll wind up living and working in the Dead End. Are you willing to do that?”

Megatron looked up at him, delighted. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am. It’s what I’d prefer, actually. I didn’t put myself through—,”

“—Pit,” Ratchet supplied helpfully.

“I didn’t put myself through the Pit just to treat mecha who’d be taken care of anyway. I want to make a _difference_.”

Ratchet thumped him affectionately again, even though he had to reach up quite a lot to do it. “Well. Looks like we’ve got a real revolutionary here. Perfect. All that spirit’s going to get beaten out of you by the third week, believe me, but it’s the thought that counts. And your ability to stick to it when you realize you can’t fix everyone. But seeing what you’ve done here, sticking to it won’t be a problem at all.” He glanced around, said low and fast, “You know I don’t like compliments, kid, but I’m genuinely proud of you. Enjoy this. You’ve earned it and then some.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Megatron, rather stunned. 

“Ratchet will do, Megatron,” said Ratchet. “You’re technically my junior colleague now. No needing to keep calling me ‘sir’ every time I turn around. Come on, have some jellied energon, and make sure to slip a bit of it into your subspace for your friend. He deserves this as much as you do, no matter what the function-check at the gate says.”

They both glanced over at the temporary fence erected around the university green, and the clerical bot there. The function-check was new. No manual labor class allowed in. Megatron had had a bad moment trying to get in to his own party. 

“Primus, I hope he’s not right about those fragging things getting more frequent,” said Ratchet under his breath. “Anyway. Go stuff yourself, Megatron. It’s your party.” Another thump and he drifted away, leaving Megatron standing in the center of the crowd. 

Megatron made his way over to the buffet, collecting a glass of enegex and a selection of dainties. He felt guilty about the dainties. He remembered enough time he’d spent underfueled that the waste of energon in processing these was totally unacceptable. 

“So you’re Ratchet’s pet,” said a sneering voice next to him, and he looked down to find a flyer with the broken cross of a medic on each wing at his elbow, looking at him as if he were something unpleasant that had fallen off someone’s foot. 

His intakes dried. “Sir, I don’t think I’ve had the honor…”

“You haven’t,” said the jet. “I’m Pharma. Your esteemed mentor’s mate.” There was a subtle emphasis on _mate_. “Frag, you’re every bit as unpleasant up close, aren’t you. Well, it seems he is really as much of a good teacher as I remember, getting _you_ though training. Primus alone knows what possessed him to take such a risk.”

Megatron inclined his helm a little. “I am unendingly grateful to Ratchet and his efforts,” he said. “He is certainly the reason I am standing here today.”

Pharma smirked. “At least you admit it.”

“Yes.” They looked at each other. Megatron had a brief impulse to ask after First Aid, but restrained himself. After a moment, Pharma huffed an irritated vent and stalked away. Megatron waited another minute before subspacing his plate and downing the rest of his enegex. He’d lost his taste for celebrating. All he wanted was his little habsuite and the comfort of the mech he very much hoped would become _his_ mate. 

He intended to ask Terminus if he wanted to undergo the rites when he returned home.

* * *

 

Terminus paced. He would be saying goodbye to Megatron today. If he was lucky. He was a little surprised Trepan hadn’t come to collect him already. 

He’d been rehearsing what he would say for months now, muttering it under his breath to check that he actually _could_ say it, that Trepan’s meddling wouldn’t stop it in his vocalizer. He mastered himself, sat with his hands in his lap and waited, helm bowed, for Megatron to return. 

His spark was coming to pieces within him, he was sure of it. He felt the hot prickle of optic cleanser at the corners of his optics, and tilted his head back to direct it back into its channels. The mines, without Megatron, seemed an unimaginable hell. But he couldn’t let Megatron see that. He couldn’t let Megatron know how he felt, because then the stupid, soft-sparked fool would want to follow him, and he was sure Trepan would let him. No. This was his to bear alone if he wanted to create that wonderful new world that he and Megatron had dreamed of, and he was not dashing those hopes now. Megatron was a more powerful rallying point than he had ever been before. Megatron could not be allowed to falter. 

He had no choice. So he offlined all the cleanser protocols to his optics. Buried his pain as deeply as he could, and wondered how much longer Trepan would give him.

The sound of the lock on the door disengaging. He straightened and looked at it. He felt brittle. He hoped for the strength not to shatter for just a little longer. 

It was Megatron. He let out a quick huff of relief, rose to greet him. Took Megatron’s hands in his own shaking ones, and leaned his helm against the younger mech’s.

“Are you all right?” Megatron asked softly, alarm in his voice. “Has something happened?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Terminus.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how long we have,” Terminus said. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.” He placed his hands on Megatron’s shoulders. “We talked about this before. You won’t remember it, and I can’t remind you save for this; whatever happens next, you _must_ keep doing this. You _must_ remain a medic. You can’t bow now, you can’t take it back, and if I leave, if I am _forced_ to leave, go back, anything, you _cannot_ follow me. You can’t live for yourself anymore, Megatron. I told you, long ago, that you have to be at peace with being—” the word _figurehead_ would not come, could not come, not with Trepan’s meddling, and Megatron was looking at him with confusion and fear both, and Terminus hardened his spark, “You’ll have to be at peace with being a symbol to others. Someone who isn’t hobbled by sentiment. Megatron, promise me you’ll do this.”

“Terminus…” Megatron’s shoulders shook under his hands. “What’s going on? What happened?”

Terminus looked away. The words wouldn’t come. They were too horrible, and he already knew Megatron’s response. He’d be frightened for him. He’d worry about his legs. His age, his state of repair. He’d fear that Terminus would die before they saw each other again. 

“Terminus, you’re scaring me.” Flat and honest and open. He didn’t like hearing Megatron that way. He looked back at his lover, the mech who was all but a mate to him. 

“Trepan means to send me back to the mines,” he said. “It’ll be all right, Megatron. I managed for a long time before you came along, and I need you here more than,” his vocalizer glitched on the thing he wasn’t quite sure was a lie, “I need you here more than I need you with me. I need you to give us hope.” He was amazed he’d been allowed to say that last thing. 

A knock on their door. He flinched. Only one thing that could be. 

“Don’t resist them, Megatron. Don’t give them an excuse,” he said.

Another knock. Megatron looked at the door with very real fear in his optics. Terminus’s hands clenched on his shoulders. “Megatron. Megatron. Look at me, now. What is your name?”

Megatron obeyed. “Megatron,” he said softly. 

“Yes. And where are you from?”

“I’m from Tarn.”

Terminus let out a vent he wasn’t aware of holding. Trepan had left that, at least. “Good.”

From outside, the sounds of the lock being overridden. 

“Remember that,” he said, hearing the edge of his own fear. “If nothing else, Megatron, _remember that._ ”

The door opened, and Trepan stepped into the room. He hadn’t bothered to hide his anger, and the two mecha on either side of him moved past him to take Terminus by the shoulders. 

“You’re ten minutes late,” he said coldly.

Terminus dropped his gaze immediately. Long instinct. “I’m sorry, sir, I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Trepan snorted. “Of course. Come along.”

Terminus tangled his fingers with Megatron’s, one last tight grasp. It would have to do instead of a kiss. He dared say no more. Only, “Be happy, Megatron. Don’t wait for me.”

After all, he didn’t think Trepan would ever let them see each other again. 

Trepan smirked at Megatron. “Congratulations on your success, Megatron. I hope it’s worth everything you’ve been through. Come on, Terminus, your transport won’t wait all day.”

They left Megatron standing there in his room, seeming very small and bereft, and Terminus went with Trepan’s thugs, not looking back. He wasn’t sure if that was for his sake or Megatron’s.


	19. Act II

**Six Months Later**

Orion Pax frowned at the building in front of him. He didn’t want to go in. But duty called. 

He had two Enforcers with him, but they wouldn’t do a whole lot of good against Overlord’s people. They were vastly outnumbered, to start with; he also had no idea what Overlord might have on them. Last time he’d gone in to question Overlord, his entire team had quailed. Conjunx endurae, friends, livelihoods, when it came to blackmail, Overlord was endlessly inventive. He wondered sourly if Overlord might have done very wonderful things if he hadn’t turned his mind to crime. 

He looked up at the building Overlord had made his headquarters, and vented heavily. “All right,” he said. “Either of you wants to back out now, I won’t judge. But if you come in with me, we’re seeing it through to the end. A mech is dead. We owe it to him to find out who was responsible. No matter who it is. Am I understood?”

Prowl and Tumbler looked at each other. They were from outside his district; he’d requested them specifically because of that, and their reputations. 

“Yes sir,” said Tumbler. 

Orion stepped forward and pushed open the door. 

“We’re here to see Overlord,” he told the mech who loomed out of the dimness at them. 

“And just who do you think you are?”

“Orion Pax, Enforcer. Either show us to him or step aside.”

He stepped aside. Orion let out a small vent of relief. One hurdle passed. Of course, it didn’t mean much. Overlord was always one step ahead of everyone. Once, just _once_ , Orion wanted to see him at a disadvantage, to _admit_ to something. One day, that fragger would go down, and Orion just hoped it would happen legally.

They turned, heading up the hall toward the central room of the building, what Overlord called his office. It looked like a throne room, a wide space before a single chair.

Overlord reclined on the chair, a lazy grin flicking across his generous lips. “Orion Pax. Such a pleasure! You’re here about the murder, I’m sure.” 

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t have anything to do with it. In fact, I’m quite upset. I’ve got some of my people keeping an optic out; I’ll be sure to let you know if anything shows up. One of the laborers on the docks, wasn’t he? Pity. Such easy targets. Perhaps he annoyed the wrong person in power, and didn’t even know it.”

“Perhaps,” said Orion stiffly. The mech hadn’t just been a dockworker; he’d participated in pit fights to a small extent. Somehow he’d ended up fighting Overlord. Overlord had spared him two days before his body had shown up. “Still, procedure must be observed.”

“Of course, officer.” Overlord smirked more. “How can I help you? Of course, I do want a little from you in return. Nothing illegal. Information only. Inquiring minds want to know.”

“What, exactly?” Orion’s optics narrowed.

“Your friend Ratchet. He’s got a new assistant. Any idea who he is?”

“I have not spoken to Ratchet in some time.”

“How remiss. Really, Orion. Keep better track of your friends. He’s a very remarkable assistant. He looks like a miner. Medic colors, though. Seems he might be serving out an apprenticeship.”

“It seems you know more of him than I do, Overlord.”

Overlord waved a hand. “I suppose so. It was worth a try. Count it as a favor; it sounds like your friend Ratchet is getting political, a very dangerous sort of activity these days. You get the sanitized version, Orion. I’m the one who deals with the Senate’s victims when they inevitably turn up down here.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” Distraction. It was always distraction with Overlord. What seemed like freely given information, designed to throw you off the scent. “But the dockworker. He was last seen alive when fighting you.”

Overlord laughed a little. “Oh yes. Poor thing. He was out of his class and he knew it. You do know I spared him, don’t you? Only a few thousand mecha saw it.”

Orion nodded. “I know that. I don’t know what happened after.”

Overlord fixed his full attention on him, and he stared back, refusing to be intimidated. 

“I offered him employment,” said Overlord softly. “He accepted. Then he vanished. I know you fancy we have a little rivalry going, Orion, but this is absurd. I don’t know anything more than that, and continuing to ask is…unwise.”

Orion felt himself smile grimly behind his mask. “Of course. I will contact you if I have any…further questions.”

Overlord nodded, before his optics went to the mecha with Orion. “Prowl and Tumbler. A little outside your jurisdiction?”

“We are assisting Orion Pax with this investigation,” said Prowl stiffly. 

Overlord laughed softly. “I see. Clever, Pax. Very clever.”

Orion nodded at him and turned his back, not venting properly until they were out on the street and well away from Overlord. 

He didn’t speak until they were back in the police station, in one of the soundproofed rooms. 

“That was not particularly productive,” said Prowl, his doorwings hiked with disapproval. “I’d prefer to stay until we’d solved this case.”

“It was more productive than usual,” said Orion. “He offered Rout employment, he said as much. Not _what_ he offered Rout employment _as_ , however. We’re never going to have enough evidence to really prove this, but rumor has it that Overlord likes to keep his defeated opponents as berthmates after sparing their lives. None of the survivors will confirm it, and some end up dead, like Rout.”

“As you’ve said,” said Prowl. “His comments would fit with that, too. But there’s no way to prove it. We tried everything short of going in and asking him first, and we’ve now tried that.”

“And look where it got us,” said Tumbler. “Primus, Orion, why do you _stay_ here? Iacon could use you.”

“I’m needed more here.” That was the end of it. He’d be the one thing Overlord couldn’t chase out of the city. Never mind that Overlord hadn’t particularly _tried._ It was like he found Orion funny, and let him be. 

“Almost a month, and we have to return tomorrow,” grumbled Tumbler. “It’s like someone doesn’t want us to solve this case.”

Orion remained silent. He was fairly sure someone didn’t. Overlord had friends in high places. 

It was in a sour mood that he returned home. His apartment was a bare little space, largely unadorned. He crossed to the datastation, after drawing his evening energon, and settled himself there, thinking.

After a time, he began to write.

Megatron of Tarn had never resumed his work. He was, it seemed, gone. Along with all the other missing persons reports he dealt with, Orion had opened a private report. Not on any datapad; within his own brain.

It wasn’t a chore maintaining it; it was empty.

He’d stepped into Megatron’s place as best he could, though he used a penname. _Optimus._ He liked it; it was close to optimism, and as he hoped to inspire faith in a better future, it fit. He wrote about the situation in the Dead End, about starvation and corruption and what happened to mecha too hopped up on circuit speeders to move. He wrote about the unfairness of relegating mecha here based on their alt modes, of the potential he saw in others dismissed by society. About how this kept everyone in their separate little groups, unable to ally. About how cooperation was the only hope for freedom. He’d begun doing political research; he proposed ways of effecting political change.

One day they would find him, he knew, as they’d found Megatron, but the false name and the web of digital misdirection he’d set up might buy him some time. For now, though, someone needed to speak out. He’d be a poor protector of the people if he remained silent now.

 

* * *

 

“Working late at the clinic, I see,” said Pharma. The snide tone of his voice made Ratchet sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Pharma, I have an apprentice. He needs the time, and since the medical academy conveniently neglected to find any rotations he could take there, it’s the clinic or nothing. Besides, it’s good practice for him. Real, not the coddled, carefully selected cases at the academy.”

Pharma bristled. “First Aid is doing perfectly fine, and he’s not being coddled.”

Ratchet raised his hands defensively. “Fine. First Aid’s a good kid. He’ll learn, and you’re doing a great job with him. But I need to look after Megatron; I’m his mentor.”

There was the root of the problem. The twist of Pharma’s mouth became even more sour. “You didn’t have to take him on for the apprenticeship.”

He could hear this argument in his sleep, he’d heard it so many times. He sighed again. “He’s a good student,” he said. 

Pharma sneered. “He’s not and you know it.”

“He’s a good student,” Ratchet repeated, hearing anger in his own voice. “He deserves a chance, Pharma. I just don’t understand your insistence on never giving him one!”

“He’s a miner. He should stay where he was sparked.”

“If you’re going to talk that way, why the frag did you marry me?” Ratchet spat, stung beyond bearing. “Dammit, Pharma, you know how I feel about that!”

“Maybe I changed my mind after seeing him up close! Maybe I changed my mind because all our colleagues think you’re fragging him! How do you think that makes me feel, knowing I’ve been upstaged by a _miner_!”

“I’m not fragging him,” said Ratchet. “Why would I do something like that?”

“There’s no other explanation!”

“He’s a good student, Pharma!”

“Listen to yourself!” Pharma’s voice cracked. “He’s a good student. That’s all you say! Well, maybe I’m sick of being in danger because you decided this mech was the second coming of Primus. He’s dangerous. He’s stupid. He’s ugly. And everyone thinks you’re fragging him! They’re laughing at me!”

“Then they’re idiots,” snapped Ratchet. “Pharma, if I listened every time people gossiped about me, if I took it to spark, I wouldn’t have gotten out of medical school.” 

Pharma slapped him. 

Ratchet reeled back against the bookshelf. It felt hard enough to dent; he was amazed to find smooth metal under his fingers when he raised a shaking hand to it. He looked up at Pharma, suddenly lost for words. Pharma was bigger than him. He’d always liked that. Now, it occurred to him for the first time that the difference in size was worrying. 

Optic cleanser welled up in Pharma’s optics. He took a step back, then two, and fled the room, leaving Ratchet to slide to the floor, staring at his hands.


	20. Chapter 20

Ratchet went back to the clinic that night. There was a second cot in his office. It seemed better than sharing a room with Pharma. He just needed to make sure Megatron didn’t ask awkward questions.

However, when he walked in the door, Megatron displayed a brilliant grasp of good timing by looking at him blearily from where he had been sorting the newly autoclaved instruments, saying, “Ratchet? I’m glad you’re back, I don’t think I feel well,” and keeling over at his pedes.

Ratchet thanked every god and Prime he didn’t believe in as he hauled a groggily protesting Megatron semi-upright and dragged him to the examination room they used for infectious patients. This meant he didn’t have to _think._ It did mean he had to deal with Megatron trying to catch the big pretty polka dots his optical suite was insisting existed, and he already knew the mech’s temperature was far above what it should be from the heat coming off his armor, but at least he wasn’t asking questions. 

“Megatron,” he said after a moment, “leave the polka dots alone.” Typical that the mech would only admit to being sick when he was currently delirious. He really needed to work on instilling a sense of self-preservation in the mech. He did a scan. “Yep. You’re sick as Pit. And I think I know with what. Fortunately, the visual symptoms are going to go away once it reaches your gyroscopic subprocessor. Unfortunately, that means you’re going to start purging everywhere.” He sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me that you hadn’t had all your vaccinations?”

Megatron turned his helm and managed to focus on him. “I have been vaccinated,” he managed, which impressed Ratchet. Someone with the processor ache of an early-stage adaptivirus shouldn’t be able to do that without substantial effort. “When I came online.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got a protoform’s virus, probably from that bot we patched up this morning. Bet they gave you substandard vaccinations. No. Stay there. Believe me, your room will thank me in the morning.” Megatron’s optics had slid out of focus again. “Aand we’re back to the polka dots. You poor fragger.” He patted Megatron’s shoulder. He’d already had this, and it wasn’t something you got twice. 

“You’ll be down for about a week,” he said, mostly to himself. “Not purging the whole time, thank Primus, but you’ll be dizzy and it’ll clog up your vents. And you’ll _itch._ There’s only so much drugging you to the optics will do; you’ll just have to put up with it.” He reached to put a sympathetic hand on Megatron’s forehelm, and Megatron startled him by letting out a little high-pitched noise and curling into a ball on his side, optics wide and white with terror.

“Frag,” he said, pinching his nasal ridge and afraid to touch Megatron again for fear of making it worse. “I’m sorry kid.” He took a step back and Megatron didn’t uncurl. “I’m just gonna stay over here until you relax, okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Mentally, he kicked himself. He’d guessed enough about Megatron’s past to know better. “No one’s gonna touch your processor, it’s okay. Settle back down, just focus on getting better.”

Very, very slowly, Megatron’s optics returned to their normal color. Ratchet stayed on the other side of the room until he’d begun to uncurl from his panicked huddle, almost an hour. Then he carefully, and loudly, filled a container with coolant, put a straw in it (one of the curly ones, for protoforms; he found that his adult patients loved them just as much, if not more, and was sure that there were few such luxuries in Megatron’s life to date) and offered it to Megatron. “I think you’re going to want this.”

He was ready to catch it but Megatron managed surprisingly well, draining the container quickly. It was just going to come right up again afterward, but dry heaves were very unpleasant. Better he have at least something to bring up. Ratchet met his optics. “Again, I’m sorry. I should have known better.”

“I just don’t like it,” said Megatron quietly. “I’m not sure why.” 

Ratchet took the container again. “More coolant?”

Megatron nodded. He finished half the next container and then went back to trying to catch polka dots. Ratchet made sure he had a bucket, that the berth was low enough he could reach said bucket, and went to get the necessary drugs and programs to make the next few hours at least a little less unpleasant. 

This was something Megatron could handle here; their patient this morning hadn’t needed to be hospitalized. But he didn’t want Megatron left alone. He could manage, but he had enough enemies Ratchet felt uneasy leaving him on his own in the clinic while very sick. Besides, it was about time someone looked after the poor mech. He still hadn’t recovered from Terminus’s disappearance. 

Ratchet couldn’t say he was surprised about Terminus vanishing. He wished he could. He closed his optics and sighed. Poor Megatron. He didn’t deserve any of this. 

A retching noise from the other room brought him back to the issue at hand. Right. Violently ill intern. Ratchet hoped he’d hit the bucket, but he wasn’t about to hold his vents. 

* * *

 

It was later.

Massive discomfort had happened. Now Megatron lay curled on his side with an insulating blanket over him, aching. He remembered faintly the delirium and general misery, and vividly all the purging he’d just done. His tank ached. He hadn’t known it could do that. The light hurt his optics. He squeezed them shut, even though Ratchet had darkened the room. The little bit of light that crept past the doorjamb was more than he could face. 

He shivered. The blanket helped, but it wasn’t enough. Several dozen blankets wouldn’t have done it, he was sure. He didn’t think he could be warm again. Ratchet had promised him a hot solvent shower once he finished dealing with the first patients of the day. He was looking forward to it. 

He hated to admit it, but the physical misery was almost a relief. It was easier to deal with than missing Terminus, and Ratchet was fussing over him. He hurt too much to have his pride offended, and could admit that it was very nice to be fussed over, to be uncomfortable and have someone acknowledge it and care for him. To feel like he didn’t have to push through it. 

He stifled a groan. He hadn’t felt like he needed to purge in hours, but if the pain in his helm got any worse, that might be sufficient to start it again. And something on his leg had started to itch. 

He stamped back the wistful memories of Terminus looking after him, before the accident, when he’d come down with one of the illnesses that plagued the mines. Too many people in tight spaces, diseases spread easily. He remembered a gentle hand smoothing over his helm, when such a gesture hadn’t frightened him so badly. A friendly voice.

He coughed, coming back to reality, a fevered, aching frame and no Terminus. He let out a little moan of discomfort and burrowed his face in against the berth padding. There wasn’t much to stay awake for. 

He groaned quietly again, and, with his usual determination, set about falling asleep again.

 

* * *

 

Ratchet left Megatron to sleep it off while he scrubbed himself and the room and opened up the clinic for the day. He’d run it for years on his own, and doing it now wasn’t much of a problem. 

He didn’t want to think. 

Every time he stopped moving, his cheek seemed to ache more. His spark hurt, too. Every time he stopped moving, it was a fight not to curl up into a ball and stay there, which was ridiculous because it wasn’t like he’d been seriously injured. 

The door chime sounded. Ratchet went out to get it, and found Orion Pax standing uneasily on his stoop. “Fragged off Overlord again, did you?” he asked. 

“Not exactly,” said Orion, stepping inside. “But he did make a remark about your new assistant.”

“Frag,” said Ratchet.

Orion waited for the door to close behind him. “May I speak with him?”

“No, he’s asleep. Finally.” Ratchet frowned at Orion. “He’s been ill. An adaptivirus.”

“I’m inoculated,” said Orion. 

Ratchet folded his arms. “Why so intent on seeing him?”

“I thought…” Orion looked faintly shamefaced. “I’m looking for a miner,” he said at last. “One that vanished a little over a year ago. I’m wondering if he matches.”

Ratchet gave him a long, narrow-opticked glare. “Are you now,” he said. “Megatron’s been through enough, Orion. No matter what you find, leave it be. He can’t afford any more scrutiny.”

He saw the way Orion startled, optics wide, and cursed inwardly. He’d given too much away, he knew it. Of _what,_ he wasn’t sure. 

“Megatron,” said Orion. “Are you _sure_ that’s his name?”

“He’s sure that’s his name.” Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge. “Orion, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I never told you about Megatron of Tarn, did I?” said Orion softly. “Or his writings.”

_Tarnian corruption of Megaton,_ Ratchet remembered. _You know how they like to stick ‘r’s where they don’t belong._

“Oh,” he said out loud, and sat down. “That explains…rather a lot.”

Orion sat down across from him. “So it is him,” he said, optics bright. He was probably smiling under that faceplate. “Ratchet, you have no idea how important this is. I thought he might be dead.”

“Hold it right there,” snapped Ratchet. “No. Don’t tell me anything. _NO._ ” Orion stopped mid ventilation and stared at him. “No, Orion. Do not tell me anything more. Don’t say anything more, and for frag’s sake, don’t act like you’ve figured it out. You are _not_ going in to meet him, do you understand me?”

Orion stared at him, obviously hurt and alarmed. 

“The last two people who became friends with him had bad things happen. One sent back to the mines. One, I’m fairly sure, shadowplayed. Shockwave’s looking out for us so far but let’s not make assumptions. Someone has it out for that mech, and if I know why, it will make things worse. And if you start encouraging him to go back to his old ways, we’re all going to be fragged. Him particularly. They’ll kill him, Orion. Or come up with something they think is worse. Empurata? Even worse shadowplay—someone did a _butcher_ job on his brain—reprogramming? I don’t want to find out. So no. I want you nowhere near him, for your safety and his.”

Orion still stared at him.

“Also he just finished purging his tank out,” said Ratchet. 

“Ratchet,” said Orion, quietly, “Overlord is interested in him. I just finished fishing the corpse of the last mech Overlord fancied out of a smelting pit.”

Ratchet’s plating clamped tight. He looked away. 

“You be careful too,” said Orion. 

“Yeah,” said Ratchet, his voice rough. “Yeah, I will.”


	21. Chapter 21

It wasn’t the conversation with Orion that brought the dreadful suspicion alive in Ratchet’s brain. It was the way Pharma welcomed him home.

“Ratchet?” The other medic looked up at him from the couch, hands clasped together, everything about him drooping. “Oh, thank Primus you’re okay. I was worried sick.”

Ratchet looked at him, both glad Pharma didn’t seem angry, and nervous—what if his mood changed? He must have suspected where Ratchet had spent the last day. 

“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t even begin to cover it. I don’t know what came over me.” Pharma didn’t stand up, deliberately kept himself small—what they were trained to do around a frightened patient. He looked up at Ratchet. “I’m just… I’m sorry, Ratchet. I lost my temper. I was so scared for you, and you weren’t listening.”

The trickle of guilt in Ratchet’s spark rose. He’d spent much of the last day and a half wondering what had happened, why this had happened, what he had done. It seemed it was the same as usual.

Pharma was looking at him, searching for acknowledgement. 

“I lost my temper,” he repeated, and he did stand up, pressed a cube of flavored energon into Ratchet’s nerveless hands. “Please, Ratchet. I’m more sorry than you can imagine. I don’t know what came over me.”

_I don’t know what came over me. Oh Primus. No._

The realization settled in his tank like a solid ball of lead.

Pharma had been shadowplayed.

* * *

 

Orion sat and stared at the wall.

Megatron was here.

Megatron was _alive._

And Ratchet was protecting him.

This much hope _hurt._ Orion’s optics tilted in a smile. 

There was something to work toward, and one of these days, he _would_ meet Megatron, face to face, and…say whatever he could to make things better. But for now, he turned back ot his work with renewed vigor. There was something worth fighting for.

And he was sure that one day, Megatron would be happy to learn someone had taken up his mantle. 

One day, he would get to meet him.

_Help_ him. 

He laughed a little at himself at that, knowing he was already more than half in love with a mech he’d never met. But those _words._ It was the very first time he understood just how powerful words could be. Megatron through words alone had taken his spark in his hands, filled it with an iron belief, an iron _hope_ , new and bright and unbreakable. It had _changed_ him. Determination, commitment, an ideal to follow even if it were by himself, in the dark—for hadn’t Megatron, too, formed this in the dark? 

He thought about all the stories of poets selling their sparks to Unicron to gain fame. Was that an easy bargain to make at the bottom of a mine? Orion did not believe in such things. But he thought about the dedication it would take to put those words down, knowing every one might kill the writer. So many accidents might happen in a mine. A will as iron as the hope he inspired. Such a bargain, a commitment, held more weight in Orion’s mind than any deal with a deity. 

He wanted to let Megatron know he was recognized. Supported. That he had allies, and that he was valued. Whatever might have been done to him, there were still people who valued him.

He wondered what he would look like.

He opened his datastation and began to write. Knowing Megatron was still alive, even if it was a close secret, inspired him as never before.

He did not recharge that night.

* * *

 

Megatron agitated to get back to work as soon as he could. Ratchet lost his temper and threatened to strap him to his berth for the first day. It turned out he didn’t need to. Megatron tried to stand anyway and abruptly found himself on his knees, clutching the berth to keep from toppling all the way over. 

“You have no sense,” Ratchet told him, helping him up with little apparent effort. Megatron had always known medics were built sturdy for their size, but he was still impressed as Ratchet loaded him back onto the berth with equal ease. He decided not to get into a fight with any medics—as much as he disliked Pharma. He’d overheard a few of his conversations with Ratchet over the medical clinic transmitters, and didn’t like the tone he took with Ratchet. 

In the meantime, he was bored. There was nothing to do but read. It wasn’t like he disliked reading, but there were far more interesting things going on outside the recovery room. He wanted to help. Before this, he’d never spent a day out sick from work in his life; he’d had to power through it in the mines, even if all he could do was lean on the drill and pray it wouldn’t hit a pocket of rock or gas that would cause it to skip or make an explosion.

And he wanted his routine back.

He liked the routine of life at the clinic. There was always work to do, always something to do to occupy his hands and let him think. Ratchet was kind. Irascible, but kind. And that mattered a lot. 

He was always teaching, too. Megatron had learned more here than he had in the first year of his training. Another thing: here, he knew he was making a difference.

He remembered his conversations with First Aid, the horrors they’d imagined. This was definitely worse. He’d already seen things that no one would believe, that even he couldn’t have believed before coming here. But he was doing something about them, and that made it bearable. 

It took a day for the shivering and itching to abate, three for the cough to become bearable. Finally, Ratchet watched him stand and wobble across the room. 

“One more day,” he said. “Then you can wash some of the glassware. Primus knows it needs it.”

“Thank you.” He curled back up in the berth. Ratchet handed him new datapads and scanned him. 

“You have an excellent self-repair system,” he commented. “Not a trace of virus in your systems; all your discomfort is your self-repair attacking things inappropriately. Take it slow today. No sneaking out when you shouldn’t.”

Megatron nodded and behaved himself. 

Ratchet made good on his promise to allow him to do some work. At first, early in the morning, this was excellent. He could be out and about and listen to Ratchet dealing with his patients. But some of their patients were what First Aid would have called real creeps.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore optics.”

Megatron glanced behind him. “If you need a repair, go see Ratchet. I’m busy.” Normally he wouldn’t have been so brusque with a potential patient, but something about this mech made his plating stand on end. Something about the tone of voice, or the way the mech—the _very big mech—_ stood in the door just gave him the surges. Ratchet was attending someone else in another room. Suddenly, Megatron _really_ wanted to call him. 

Soft laughter. “I’m not looking for repairs. I’m looking for you.” Rapid footsteps crossed the floor, and Megatron fought the urge to flinch at the sense of filled space at his back. A hand settled on his shoulder, turned him bodily. A finger lifted his chin. “This isn’t some crass colony, my dear. With a face and frame like yours, you don’t _have_ to work. Especially not in a crude hovel such as this.”

Tamping the revulsion and panic down, Megatron stood where he was, refusing to flinch, glaring at the larger mech. Big. Blue, with detailing picked out in the color of congealed energon. “And if I _want_ to work?” he said icily. 

The generous lips curled into a smile. “Perhaps you could allow me to persuade you otherwise. I’d be very happy to. Think of what you could do with a little extra on the side.”

“Unhand me,” said Megatron. The other mech hesitated a few moments, a silent challenge Megatron refused to take. Then he let go. 

“As for your offer, I have no need or desire for it,” said Megatron, and turned his attention back to the glassware. “That is my final decision. Respect it.”

The mech laughed. “My name is Overlord, little medic. Remember it. It may be of use to you.”

In response, Megatron pulled the plug on the basin, losing whatever Overlord said next in the gurgle of solvents. He finished rinsing the load of glassware before he turned around. 

Overlord had gone. 

Megatron stared at the doorway, profoundly disturbed. The urge to punch something, even if it wasn’t those smug faceplates, refused to abate. It took a moment before he realized his lips had skinned back from his dentae in a snarl. 

Overlord. Ratchet had warned him about the mech. Megatron had never dreamed he’d see him in the clinic. Casual, like he _lived_ here.

Megatron felt distinctly more unsettled about spending the night. He was going to check the locks very carefully.

* * *

 

Overlord was sulking around the place, and that was never a good sign. Ratchet dismissed his current patient, then, at Megatron walking very quickly into the room, alarm all but boiling off him looked up. “What is it? Are you done with the glassware? Go rest.”

Megatron shook his head. “There’s someone here,” he said. 

Ratchet’s eyebrows went up and he followed. Only to find a smirking Overlord in the middle of the clinic. “Oh,” he said. “Megatron. Go sort the autoclavable materials in the recovery room.”

Megatron bobbed his helm and scrammed. Good kid. Smart kid.

“Overlord. What do you want?” Ratchet folded his arms and glared.

“Your little assistant,” said Overlord, leaning close over Ratchet. “I want him. How much?”

“Funnily enough, he’s not for sale,” said Ratchet. Somehow, he managed to keep the disgust off his faceplates. 

“Oh, come now, Doctor. He’s a miner. Look at that frame. You can’t expect me to believe that’s a legitimate medic.” The mech dirtied perfectly innocent words with his smirk.

“He’s a legitimate medic. See for yourself.” Ratchet pulled up Megatron’s official ID. 

Overlord looked. 

“How peculiar,” he said. “It seems you are correct.” He straightened up. “I shall speak to him myself.”

“He’s my intern,” said Ratchet coldly. “Don’t try pressuring him to do _anything_ , or I’ll plant my foot so far up your aft you’ll taste it for the next century. Am I clear?”

Overlord chuckled. “This is why I admire you, Doctor. Afraid of nothing.”

“I _mean it_ ,” snapped Ratchet. 

Overlord made no response, but to turn away, still smirking, and walk out the door.

“Frag,” said Ratchet.

* * *

 

“Good evening, Overlord.”

Overlord smirked. “Ah, the little doctor. What may I do for you this evening, Trepan?”

Trepan smiled, sipped the glass of high grade he’d already poured himself, leaned against the table in an extremely attractive way. Overlord looked him over appreciatively; he liked pretty things, and while Trepan wasn’t exactly to his tastes, far be it from him to admire something nice when it sauntered up. 

“Nothing that you wouldn’t want to do on your own, I assure you,” he said. “That new medic in Old Hatchet’s clinic?”

“If you’re about to tell me to keep my hands off him, I’ll be sparkbroken,” said Overlord. He raised his brows at the smaller mech. “You wouldn’t do that to me, now would you? I promise not to break him too much. Not unless he’s _troublesome_.” 

Trepan laughed, his usual quiet little laugh. “Oh, no. Not at all, Overlord. Not at all. Indeed, the best thing you could do for me is grab him out of that clinic and frag him senseless.”

“What a treat,” said Overlord, and meant it. “Has he done something to irritate those on high?”

“You might say as much,” said Trepan. “This was supposed to make him go flat on his face. Alas, he seems more robust than that. Quite a problem. We’re tired of it, to tell the truth.”

Overlord’s smile grew. “And I assume that simply disappearing the mech would be too obvious?”

“He must do it of his own volition,” said Trepan. “They’re trying to prove the inherent inability of miners to become medics.”

“I don’t like your masters yanking me around,” said Overlord. “But, this time, there’s certainly something I want in it. Very well. I’ll go about proving the immorality of your defiant little medic. I certainly know how to get what I want.”

“That’s all we could ask,” said Trepan. He finished the glass. “We’ll waive the fee this month as a token of gratitude.”

Overlord’s brows went up further. “Hm. The little medic means that much, does he?”

“Not when you’re done with him,” said Trepan, and let himself out. 


	22. Chapter 22

It had been three days. The blow hadn’t even left a dent, but Ratchet still felt the pressure of a phantom hand against his cheek. 

Pharma seemed to think nothing had happened. He’d curled up on their berth with his back to Ratchet, wings twitching gently, while Ratchet lay next to him with those ten seconds playing behind his optics. The way Pharma had looked at him. The blow, the sound of his mate’s hand cracking against his face. He found his fingers tracing the line of his cheek, forced them away from his face, and shuddered. Fear coiled deep in his tank.

Pharma would never hit him. He knew it. Never. That wasn’t who Pharma was.

But there was an explanation. A simple one. Horrifyingly simple.

Shadowplay. Someone could have shadowplayed Pharma, a punishment for something Ratchet had done. To get at Megatron by eliminating his one protector. Or simple spite. 

Ratchet slowly pulled the light out from his subspace. Primus. If Pharma ever found out, he’d be right to be angry. But he had to know. 

It was simple to shadowplay a medic. No thick helm to go through, just an injection in the back of the neck, and done. Only one spot to check. 

He clicked the UV light on, looked at the back of Pharma’s neck. 

Nothing.

He let out the long vent of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

He’d been ready to run. But if this were just a display of temper, nothing more sinister than that, he could fix this. He could work this out. Between the two of them, things would be okay.

* * *

 

Megatron regained his feet and duties quickly after that. 

About three weeks later, as Ratchet was preparing to leave and Megatron was tidying things away for the night, there was a knock at the door. Ratchet being closer went to answer it.

“Frag!” Ratchet paused half in, half out of the clinic door, jammed it open with a foot. “Megatron, cot here now. You’ll have to transfer him. He’s out of my size class.”

Megatron was already in motion, collecting an anti-grav gurney and pushing past Ratchet. There was a mech on their doorstep, but a body was probably a more accurate way of putting it. Energon streaked down his frame, evidence of a savage beating. There seemed to be serious lacerations as well; someone had taken a blade to his frame. Stasis cuffs had left burns on his wrist plating.

His tank flopped sickly, but he moved the body onto the gurney as quickly and gently as he could, reactivated the anti-gravs. 

Behind him, the patient file recorder chirped on. 

“Tell me what you’re seeing,” said Ratchet, an order, and Megatron started talking as he pushed the gurney into the surgery.

“Heavy grounder, civilian frame with weapons modifications; typical enforcer caste. Unconscious, lacerations, burns, and denting. Lacerations largely to the dermal plating, most shorter than one meter. Dents extensive. We’ll have to check for internal injuries. Burns consistent with heavy-warframe grade stasis cuffs at their highest setting.” He stopped, turned on the scanning field, and while that ran, bent to better examine their patient. Quite a heavy grounder, he thought. There had been a plate over the nasal ridge and mouth; that had been cut away. The joints of the digits had had metal splinters shoved into them. Agonizing, not life threatening. 

But a few of those cuts were. “I see at least four lacerations extending a decimeter or more into the protoform,” he said. “One optic cracked. Hopefully we won’t need to replace that.”

“We’d better not,” said Ratchet, already scrubbing in. “We’re out of the damn things.” He looked at the scan. “All right. Your turn. I’ll get to work.”

Megatron cleaned himself, keeping his vents even and calm. This wasn’t the first time. But it was horrifying. The extent of that deliberately inflicted damage unsettled him profoundly. Who the frag would do that, especially to an enforcer?

He glanced over his shoulder at the red and blue frame on the cot, concern stirring within him. Whoever it was, they were a threat.

And froze as a horrible thought came to him, a horrible memory of red optics and a smile that made his plating crawl. The pressure of a finger under his chin, forcing him to look up, a controlling gesture under a veneer of unwelcome intimacy. 

_Overlord_ , Ratchet had said. The mech who held all of the lives in the Dead End in the palm of his hand. The champion of the pit fights, and ruler of a criminal empire. Who _else_ would dare attack an enforcer?

But why dump the mech here? 

A dreadful suspicion settled in the bottom of his tank. He finished scrubbing in, turned to work. 

“This wasn’t intended to kill him,” Ratchet was saying. “Rush job, too. Probably dragged him into a basement somewhere, not something more organized.”

“You see this often?” said Megatron, his voice steady as he lifted a small welder for the delicate work on the mech’s protoform. 

“Once every few months,” said Ratchet. “Some stupid fragger crosses the wrong bots. That sort of thing.”

“Are they usually enforcers?” His hands were steady as he worked, despite the revulsion and fear roiling together through his frame.

“Not usually,” said Ratchet. “Not a good sign you-know-who is getting so bold. Not sure I like the door-to-door delivery, either.”

Megatron finished the weld, looked up at Ratchet, who met his optics without pausing in his work. “You think this might have to do with…”

“It’s just his style.” Ratchet gave him a crooked smile. “We’ve got protections, though. He knows not to mess about with someone under my care—or our patron’s.”

Megatron looked down at the still frame. “What about others?”

Ratchet said nothing. The dread settled harder. 

“You’re under Senator Shockwave’s protection,” said Ratchet. “That counts for something, even around here. As long as you don’t tread on anyone’s stabilizers, you’ll be fine. We’ll just need someone to remind Overlord that you’re off limits.”

Megatron looked down. If Overlord was this bold, would a ‘reminder’ do anything? From what he’d seen so far, he sincerely doubted it.

He went to work on the mech’s optic, painstaking, fiddly work that occupied all of his processor. When he finished that, he found Ratchet had done the rest and was now examining the patient for further damage, swearing softly as he did. “You fragging idiot,” he was saying under his breath. “You fragging idiot, Orion, didn’t I _tell_ you this would happen?”

_Orion_. The mech’s name was Orion, and Ratchet knew him. Megatron’s tank felt heavy with guilt and his hands shook. Finally it was done, and they put Orion in the CR tank. They stared at him a few moments. Megatron looked at Ratchet, who was shaking even harder than he was.

“You should go home,” he said. “Pharma will worry. I’ll keep an optic on him and make sure he’s out of it until you get back.” 

“I’ll _stay_ ,” snapped Ratchet, and Megatron—greatly daring, unused to physical touch—reached out and took one of Ratchet’s hands in his own. It trembled in his, exhaustion or nerves he couldn’t tell. 

“You can’t do anything with those,” he said softly. “You’re shaking too hard, Ratchet. You need to recharge, and I know you won’t do it here, not when you could be checking on him.”  
Ratchet gave him a look of some surprise, which then, slowly, turned into a sort of weary resignation. “You’re getting too big for your armor,” he grumbled, then raised a hand. “I can get home on my own. Don’t you dare call anyone.”

Megatron stepped back with a forced smile, raising his hands. “I would not dream of it.”

Ratchet grumbled at him again, washed up in a distracted fashion, and headed out the door. Staggered, rather, and Megatron wondered a moment if he should have escorted him at least to the public transit system, the proposed new laws about alt mode neglect be damned. But he would have lost limbs, he was sure of it. 

So instead he sat in the room and watched Orion where he floated in their sole CR tank. Perhaps he could feel virtuous about keeping an optic on him.They had been serious injuries. But in reality, he needed to collect his thoughts. 

All those injuries had been done because of him.

Ratchet’s reaction left no doubt about it. 

He looked at the mech, at the mess he was because of something he, Megatron, had refused to do, and his spark squirmed with guilt and horror and outrage. More so because that thing he’d refused to do was flatly unthinkable.

He didn’t know what to do.

* * *

 

Ratchet staggered in the door and found Pharma waiting for him with a hand on the control panel, smiling. It was the smile he’d reserved for Ratchet alone, after they’d first started dating, and it didn’t fail to set his spark hammering now. He smiled too. This was rare enough he didn’t want to question it. They could just enjoy each other’s company, and try and forget what had happened earlier. 

Primus, he needed this. The distraction. Pharma couldn’t have picked a better time, and whatever he had to offer, even after having to have waited so long, Ratchet _needed._

He tilted his face up for a kiss, and Pharma obliged—again, like the start of their relationship, wordless and wonderful and spark-stoppingly sweet. After the day he’d had, he needed it. Needed something to distract him from the sight of Orion with his armor sliced to ribbons and dented, mercifully unconscious. He kissed harder, and Pharma pushed him back against the locked door, a hand wandering down to his aft and squeezing. 

Ratchet’s legs parted, and Pharma pushed a knee between them, lifting his mouth from Ratchet’s for a second. 

“You sure you don’t want me to clean up first?” he said, his voice grating on his own audials. “I’m not exactly—”

“Don’t care,” said Pharma, cupping his face and kissing him again. His other hand finished exploring Ratchet’s aft and slid around his thigh to cup his panel from the front. Ratchet slid open immediately, and Pharma fluttered a finger against his node, a light stimulation that never failed to make Ratchet wet. He shivered, plating fanning, gasping into the kiss. 

Pharma’s hand slid down his cheek and to his arm, pinning his wrist against the door next to his head, before thrusting a digit deep inside of him. It bordered on too much, too soon, which was exactly the way Ratchet liked it. Slow and sweet? No fragging thanks. It gave him too much time to think, and Pharma knew that. 

He must have known something about what had happened, Ratchet thought distantly. What else would have brought this on? But if he knew, if he was doing exactly what Ratchet needed—he wasn’t going to complain.   
They parted briefly. Ratchet glanced down—Pharma’s spike was already out, hard, transfluid beading on the slit. He thought about taking Pharma in his mouth, and Pharma knew what he was thinking and smiled. “I’d much rather have your valve. Turn around.”

Ratchet did, bracing himself against the door again, and Pharma took his wrists in a gentle but powerful grip and pinned them at the small of his back. Ratchet bit his glossa to keep from an even louder moan. He moaned anyway when Pharma slid into him. Every ridge of Pharma’s spike seemed to rub against his sensors, and Ratchet pressed his helm to the door and whimpered. 

Pharma fragged him hard, and there was no time for thought between the waves of pleasure. It was _exactly_ what Ratchet needed.

But in the moments after overload, Orion’s face floated before him again, optics dark, one cracked, the gouges in his armor, and Ratchet shuddered. He rocked back against Pharma even though his valve was oversensitive and aching, welcoming the twinge of discomfort.

Pharma laughed against his audial. “Really bad day, was it?” he said. 

“Doesn’t even cover it,” said Ratchet. “Come on, let’s see if we can make it to the berth.” He looked with some annoyance at the transfluid stains on the door. It made Pharma laugh again, and kiss the side of his face, and release him.

They didn’t make it to the berth for a while. They made it barely six paces before he was on the floor and Pharma was above him, pushing into his secondary port and taking him like that. He wrapped his legs around Pharma’s waist and whimpered with every thrust, Pharma’s perfectly thick spike filling him perfectly. He said as much, which made Pharma laugh delightedly.

Ratchet smiled and sank into that laugh, so glad to hear Pharma sounding like himself. He wasn’t shadowplayed, he remembered, and the relief heightened his arousal, led him to clutch at Pharma’s pauldrons and move into the next thrust with a sound of delight. “I love you,” he said, and again, “I love you.” 

For all the horror of the day, at least this was the way it should be.


	23. Chapter 23

It was not a good morning. 

Megatron checked the CR tank’s levels again before stepping out to place the biohazards in their locked box for pickup. He had just locked it again when he heard the sounds of a fight—or, more accurately, a beating, around a corner. 

He pinched his nasal ridge, a bad habit he’d acquired from Ratchet, and sighed heavily. He shouldn’t get involved. But the mech in the CR tank decided him—if those fraggers were trying to do the same thing again, he was _not_ having it. He made sure the clinic door was locked and strode in the direction of the noise, trying to make himself look as big and intimidating as he could, flaring his treads out from his body as far as he could. 

“What exactly is going on here?” he demanded, rounding the corner. The two mecha doing the beating stepped back, startled, and he walked firmly toward them and the smaller white speedster curled in a ball on the ground. He had a few moments—he could see the confusion in their optics, and they actually backed away as he knelt next to their victim.

“It’s all right. It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he said to the smaller mech, who didn’t uncurl, stared past him with wide optics and bared dentae. He looked back at the mecha responsible. “You two had better leave. Now.”

“You two had better leave,” mimicked one of them. “Oooh, I’m _so_ scared. What are you going to do, little medic? Scold us?”

“You know who I am,” he said, gambling. “And you know the parties interested in me.”

The larger of the two laughed. “If you think the fact Overlord wants to get under your plating will let you stride around like you own the city, you’re dead wrong. He doesn’t like his toys getting _ideas._ ”

Megatron’s tank roiled. Well, if he’d needed any confirmation, there it was. This _was_ Overlord’s doing after all. How many mecha did he plan to dump on the clinic stoop if Megatron refused to acquiesce? Anger stirred, ugly and powerful.

“You know, the ‘face drone won’t be missed. We should kill him, take the medic down a peg.”

“Sounds just about right.” The larger reached for him, some mockery of a caress. “Other methods of persuasion being forbidden.”

Megatron let him get close enough, seized the proffered limb and threw the mech into the wall, panic and luck and Impactor’s past lessons all working together. The mech made a satisfying crunch and fell; Megatron kicked him in the face and wrenched the captive arm in a direction the mech’s designers hadn’t intended it to go. Things went pop, including, by the yell, the main articulation.

“You cog-licking—” He spun, bashing the mech he held into the wall again, and only just ducked the blow aimed for him. It was a flat, open-handed slap. The second mech wasn’t treating him like a real opponent, which given his actual combat experience, suited Megatron just fine. 

He was pretty sure that taking on two far more experienced opponents without a weapon was a terrible idea, but there didn’t seem to be much of a choice. He punched the other hard in the abdominal plating, putting all his strength behind it. There, at least, his origins did him a favor; he was far more heavily armored than most medics might be, and he was built to steady a drill more than half of his weight. The other mech didn’t expect it; he heard the air go out of his enemy’s vents, one great surprised _whoof._ Megatron slammed another two blows into the same place and brought the doubled-over mech’s face down into his knee. Something stirred behind him and he whirled on his downed opponent, who was struggling to his feet, a blade in his good hand. 

Megatron stepped in close, fast, hooked a leg behind the other mech’s knee and yanked him back to the ground, stomped the knife-wielding hand. “I don’t _need_ Overlord’s protection,” he said. “I protect myself, and anyone else I please to.” He drew back for another kick.

Then the other one grabbed him from behind and lifted him off his pedes. Megatron roared, half in alarm, half out of pure rage that someone was getting between him and an enemy, and flailed. 

It didn’t have much of a result. 

Frag. 

He didn’t remember much of Impactor’s barfight advice, but he was fairly certain this was on the ‘avoid this if at all possible’ list. Because the mech he’d been fighting was back upright again and coming at him with an expression that suggested that Overlord or no Overlord, he was very interested in revenge. Megatron snarled insults and kept struggling. Whatever they did to him, he’d make sure they paid for it. He’d bite if he had to.

He waited until the oncoming mech was in range and slammed his head into the other helm, hard, ignoring the burst of pain. It didn’t seem to do much, though, except get the other mech’s energon on him. Revolting. 

“You little—”

The mech holding him drew in a sudden, sharp vent as if surprised, as if he were about to speak. But instead of a threat, what he said was, “Erk,” before his grasp abruptly loosened.

Megatron tumbled to the ground, looked behind him, to see the smaller mech standing there with a short, energon-smeared knife in one hand. 

“Thank you,” he said, and the mech gestured frantically at him, obviously a signal to run. He needed no further prompting, staggered to his pedes and took off, the other mech close behind him. Megatron heard him falter, paused to lift him. Easy, surprisingly so—he was indeed a speedster, and the light frame was nothing to Megatron’s own. 

“They’re probably not bold enough to follow you much further,” said the mech after a short time. 

“Good,” said Megatron. “I am not inclined to take chances, however. What’s your name?”

“Drift,” said the mech. 

“Well, Drift, I’m taking you to Ratchet’s clinic. You need far better medical care than I can give in an alley. Is that all right?”

“I can’t pay.”

“We wouldn’t want you to in any case,” he said. “Thank you. You most likely saved my spark.”

Drift laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You most likely saved mine. We’ll call it even.”

Megatron smiled a little. “That works,” he said, and doubled back to the clinic, hoping there wouldn’t be any thugs waiting for them there.

* * *

 

Megatron was nowhere to be found when Ratchet returned that morning. He assumed the mech was dealing with the biohazards, and started the process of decanting Orion. After another fifteen minutes, he started to get uneasy.

Which was about the same time a bloodied and grinning Megatron came staggering in the door with a small speedster slung over his shoulders. Ratchet looked at him, at the speedster, at the dents and the energon and went, “ _What._ ”

The smile fell off Megatron’s face and he seemed to shrink. “I found Overlord’s thugs beating him up,” he said, abruptly serious. “I stopped them, but he still needs help.”

“You stopped them. With what, your face? Let me see that nasal ridge.”

“Nasal ridge?” Megatron raised a hand to it, frowning when it came away covered in energon. “I don’t remember that.”

“You headbutted that one,” said the speedster.

“Oh,” said Megatron, sounding surprised. 

“Badly,” said Ratchet. “I’m resetting your nasal ridge. This is going to hurt like frag.” 

He took more satisfaction than he should have in the resulting yelp. “Now go wash up. We’re decanting Orion in the next twenty minutes, and I’ll need your help because you’re the only one here who can lift the idiot. You, what’s your name, get on the slab and let me look at those dents.”

He might have been occupied with the work on the speedster’s dented chassis, but he sure as Pit didn’t miss the grin the two of them shared. Wonderful. Megatron had found a friend. A friend absolutely marinated in Syk, by the smell. He frowned down at the new patient. “You, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Drift,” said the patient, instantly cowed. 

“You’re going to be here for a bit, Drift. First of all, we want to keep you away from those bastards who jumped you. Secondly, I don’t like the look of this dent.”

Drift was staring at him. 

“What?”

“…usually medics just kick you out once they’ve stopped the bleeding.”

“Yeah well, Megatron’s a bad influence on me,” said Ratchet. “Hold still. It’ll take longer if you wiggle.” 


	24. Chapter 24

Orion came back online. It was certainly better than the last few times, particularly since the reason for onlining wasn’t a bucket of cold filthy solvent in the face. 

There was a medic peering down at him. A big one, unusually so—tank alt, his identification protocols offered. Another blink showed the by-now-familiar ceiling of Ratchet’s clinic.

Orion ached. He’d had a very bad night. But he could still do his job, and his ventilations caught, because young medic with an unusual alt in Ratchet’s clinic _had to be_ Megatron of Tarn. 

This would be so much easier if Megatron didn’t look like he expected Orion to spring up and bite him. He pushed himself up on an elbow and tried a tentative smile. “Hello. I take it I have you and Ratchet to thank for my continued functioning?”

Megatron _blushed_. His faceplates heated to a visible degree. Orion found himself smiling, realized with no small dismay that his faceplate hadn’t been replaced, and covered his mouth with a hand. 

“Sorry,” said Megatron. “Ratchet’s working on that bit now.”

Orion forced himself to lower the hand, because it made him look like an idiot, and tried the smile again. He asked the obvious question, the one he was already pretty sure he knew the answer to. 

“What’s your name?”

Megatron hesitated a long moment, looking down at his hands. Orion didn’t like the pause, didn’t like the way the other mech held himself. 

“Megatron,” was the response at last, with a sidelong glance at Orion.

“Megatron? Megatron of Tarn?” The question was out before he could stop it. Megatron flinched, something like fear passing over his faceplate, and Orion hastily added, “Don’t worry, I don’t—his writings are fascinating, I wouldn’t ask in a professional capacity.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that,” said the medic softly. “I’m sorry to disappoint. There’s no connection; you know how all the good names are taken.”

Orion smiled. “I know,” he said. “Sorry for presuming.”

After another moment, he asked, “So, Megatron, would you care to meet me for a cube tomorrow evening?”

He did not expect the medic to snort with explosive amusement. “If you’re feeling that much better, I’ll just get Ratchet in to take a look at you.”

Orion himself was of a different mind about that—he was an idiot for asking, and he’d just as much rather blame a helm injury for the impulse. Because from Megatron’s point of view, he was a total stranger. 

Primus. Yes. A head injury. That was what he’d tell Ratchet. Ratchet wouldn’t let him live it down. 

It didn’t take long for Ratchet to arrive, looking far too amused for Orion’s peace of mind. “Couldn’t even wait until you got out of berth, huh?” he said. “Lie right back down, you idiot. What the frag happened?”

“Some of Overlord’s thugs,” said Orion. “I still don’t know what happened, not really.”

“I told you to stay away from Megatron,” Ratchet grumbled. “Lemme see that optic. Megatron’s handiwork, by the way. Good hands, despite…”

“Despite being a miner.”

Ratchet looked briefly disturbed, then nodded. “Yeah.”

Orion lay back and submitted to his scrutiny. “I suppose Overlord really didn’t appreciate my investigation.”

Ratchet made a noncommittal noise.

“You don’t think so.”

Ratchet lowered the tool he was holding and glared. “You’re not stupid, Orion. Stop acting like it. You _know_ Overlord’s got friends in high places. Haven’t you ever figured they might ask things of him?”

Optimus thought about that. It didn’t make sense. Megatron had lost his memory, lost his writings. He was contained, threat nullified. Why would he still be all that important?

Unless…

…unless someone had found out about his own writings.

“I don’t like that expression,” said Ratchet. “That’s the expression you get before doing something _really_ slagging stupid.”

He forced himself to smile. “I promise I will not do anything _really_ slagging stupid. May I have my faceplate back?”

“Here, all ready to go,” said Ratchet, and palmed it onto his face as if he were trying to slap Orion. Orion’s optics watered both with surprise, and with the establishing connections. He tried retracting it and deploying it a few times, noting the lack of a bump between his previous mask’s connections and the new metal, then really smiled. “You must have been up all night to do this.”

“Several nights. Megatron helped. Maybe you should thank him and not stare at his aft. I thought they taught you _manners._ ”

“I did thank him.”

“And then hit on him, which nullifies it completely.”

“I blame the processor injury.”

“Fat chance.”

"Helm injury."

"Nice try, but no."

Orion sighed. “I am sorry,” he said. “His writings are inspirational, hopeful. I have the greatest possible admiration for him. I was impulsive and foolish.”

Ratchet snorted. “Now you’re being melodramatic. And before you get any notions about him—he’s not the same mech who wrote those.” He met Orion’s optics. “The Functionists made sure of that. He’s lucky he’s still got hands. He’s lucky he’s still got a fragging face. I’m not sure how much longer they’re going to let him keep them. His best bet is to keep his helm down and keep quiet. And if you’ve been up to anything revolutionary, you’re not going to make him happy, you’ll just hurt him worse than he’s already hurt—and he’s hurt pretty fragging bad, Orion. It’s a fragging miracle he’s not a gibbering terrified mess.” He glared at Orion. “I’d hope your little ordeal would have shown you as much.”

Orion looked away. He wasn’t sure if Ratchet had found out about his writing, or if this were all about Megatron. He wasn’t sure it mattered. “I understand. Is optic contact allowed, or do I need to stare at my pedes every time he’s in the room?”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Don’t be an idiot. Be civil. Don’t try to get under his armor, don’t try to drag him into any of your adventures. He needs protection, not corruption.” He gave Orion a very significant look.

Orion raised his hands defensively. “All right. All right. I’ll be good.”

For Megatron’s sake, he supposed he meant it.

* * *

 

Megatron reset his vocalizer as loudly as he could. “Drift. What are you doing.”

The small mech scrambled guiltily to his feet, optics very wide as he stared at Megatron. “Um. I got lost on my way to the washracks?”

Megatron put his hands on his hips. “You’re supposed to be in bed,” he said. “You’re still recovering from getting the slag beaten out of you. Stop eavesdropping and _shoo_.” 

“I’m fine,” said Drift, staggering a little. “I can walk.”

“Not my definition of fine, not Ratchet’s definition of fine,” said Megatron. “ _Berth_ , Drift. That sort of scarring does build up if you don’t take the time to let it heal, and I know that from experience.” He thought briefly about how stiffly Terminus always moved, about the protoform-deep scarring hidden under his own abdominal plating. “Trust me.”

Drift snorted, but accepted his arm to limp back to his berth. “You’re really big for a medic,” he said.

“I was a miner,” said Megatron, the plating on his back shifting uneasily at the look Drift was giving him, both intent and wondering, and oddly frightened. 

“Huh,” said Drift, allowing himself to be helped onto the berth with only the barest of flinches. 

“What were they talking about?” asked Megatron. Drift’s optics slid away from him, and the little mech looked abruptly cornered. 

"Drift," said Megatron, reproving. He had a terrible feeling that the overheard conversation had been about him, and he definitely didn't like the feeling, and Drift keeping it from him annoyed him further.

Drift gave him a look of genuine surprise. "You sound exactly like him when you scold," he said. "You even pick up his accent."

Megatron raised an eyebrow.

"Now you look like him, too," said Drift.

"Now you're changing the subject," said Megatron.

"Fine," said Drift. "They were talking about you. Ratchet was telling the cop to stay away from you, because it was dangerous for both of you. Happy?" 

"Hardly. Don't listen at doors. It's bad manners."

"You really sound like him," muttered Drift. "What the Pit's up with the two of you? You fragging?"

"Of course not. We both--he has a mate." Megatron watched Drift deflate at that and was privately amused. Ratchet might grumble about being an old scrappile, but he wasn't unattractive. Someone ought to hit Pharma upside the helm with that fact. Stupid mech. 

He was really beginning to hate Pharma, with the way Ratchet drooped when he answered a call from him, the tight, unhappy set of his mouth most mornings. Ratchet deserved better. 

"So," said Drift slowly, "do you make it a habit to go around rescuing paybots? You're not too great a fighter yourself, you know.”

Megatron looked away, disjointed memories speeding across his processor. Being in the same position as Drift, down and kicked in the abdomen. Someone doing something to his head, pain and forced stillness and horrible, horrible helplessness. “I’ve been there too,” he said, without spending a breath longer to question it. 

Drift was looking at him very thoughtfully. “You know you saved my life,” he said. 

“Did I?” said Megatron. “What had you done that merited being beaten to death?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t have killed me there,” said Drift. “That would have been much, much later. You see, Overlord had just expanded his territory. I didn’t know it. So I was working on his territory, and couldn’t pay the fee.”

“Fee,” said Megatron, blankly. 

“Yeah. He keeps it pretty nice, all things considered. You know, the rich mecha who like to slum it can come down and pretend to be all rough and tough, pay someone for the night, that sort of thing. And be reasonably confident they won’t get their throats slit or anything. Reasoning is, there’s better pickings in his territory, and he’s gotta keep it that way, so he wants people to pay him if they take advantage of it.” Drift wasn’t looking at him, just talking, obviously angry at his own words. “So you gotta pay to work there. Only, no one walks around here with 200 shanix on them. If you can’t pay, you have to work off the debt. He’ll set you up with a place to work, energon, all those things. You just have to take his customers and give all your earnings to him until the debt’s paid off. Funny thing is, it usually gets bigger under those arrangements.” Drift shrugged. “At least you won’t starve. It’s not profitable. He may let someone pay extra to kill you, if that’s what they want, but you won’t starve.”

“And if you refuse?” said Megatron. 

“Yeah you don’t really get to refuse,” said Drift. “They beat you up until you quit struggling and take you in anyway. A debt’s a debt.”

“Primus,” said Megatron, aware of how completely revolted he sounded. “And he’s gotten away with this?” 

“Who’s going to stop him? Orion tries, and look what happened to him. I think the only reason he’s still online is that Overlord thinks his attempts to arrest him are cute. He’ll get tired of it eventually, of course.”

Megatron looked down. “And what happens if Overlord ever has his optic on someone, and that someone isn’t interested in him?”

“Doesn’t turn out well for that someone.” Drift looked at him intently. “Doesn’t matter what that someone does; he’ll get what he wants, eventually.”

Megatron shuddered. “Wonderful. Just…wonderful.”

“That’s why they didn’t really want to fight you,” said Drift. “That makes sense. He’d be pretty sore about someone marking up his new favorite. You could say he doesn’t share well.”

Megatron felt anger bubbling at the back of his intake. “I see,” he said. " And that’s enough from you. Lie back down and let everything continue knitting back together. I’ll bring you some fuel in an hour or so.”

Drift did, but only with a very thoughtful look that Megatron did not like at all.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, he should have known better than to go outside the clinic again, and he realized this at the same time that someone seized him from behind and shoved a shock prod against the back of his neck, making his limbs seize up. He collapsed to the ground, unable to move properly, and someone laughed before several pairs of hands picked him up. Someone put an inhibitor claw on the back of his neck that knocked out his optical suite. After a while, when his legs would obey him again, they put him on his feet and made him walk. A little time after that, they let him see again. Just in time to be shoved to a stop in front of Overlord.

“Well, my little medic, I am _impressed_ ,” said Overlord. “Fought two of my best and you’re still standing here without a dent. Poor Turmoil has three sliced cables, did you know that? Much higher and it would have gotten his spark. And it’ll be a year at least before Dreadnought regains his roguishly good looks. You really do know where to hit a mech where it hurts.” He stepped in close, forcing Megatron to look up at him. “I admire that.”

“I warned them to back off,” said Megatron, meeting his optics steadily. His spark beat hard in the back of his intake, remembering Drift’s words. “They were the ones who decided to keep harassing my patient.”

“Your patient,” said Overlord. “You mean the paybot? My dear, do you know how many of _him_ there are in this city? Are you appointing yourself their guardian?” He patted Megatron’s cheek, and it was only with the very greatest restraint that Megatron kept from attacking him. It wouldn’t do any good, it would make him look weak and threatened. Better to pretend it didn’t matter, that he didn’t even see it as a threat. 

His hands clenched all the same. 

“That’ll keep you _very_ busy, on top of your other duties.” Overlord’s smile widened. The fragger knew just how angry the gesture had made him, and was enjoying it. “I so look forward to watching you try.”

“What do you want, Overlord?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Appraising optics swept over him. “I just want to get to know you a little better. Is that so bad? You’re the one who’s being unreasonable.”

“Is this your idea of courting?” Megatron eyed Overlord in turn, and managed to simply sneer, rather than show the vehement disgust he actually felt. “You do realize that the point is to ascertain the other mech’s consent, not threaten him into your berth.”

Overlord laughed, but there was an edge to it. Then he leaned forward to murmur into Megatron’s audial, “Do you think I care about _that_? All it matters is what it looks like on the outside…and what it’ll look like is that _you_ came to _me._ ”

“We’ll see about that,” said Megatron. 

“Yes, we will.” Overlord lingered there a moment longer than he needed to, then withdrew. “Oh, and a word of advice? Don’t speak about this to anyone else. We wouldn’t want anything _unfortunate_ to happen to that clinic of yours, now would we?”

Megatron raised an optic ridge. “And you think our patron would look kindly on that?”

Overlord grinned. “The balance of power changes. You already have enough enemies, little medic. Don’t make me one of them as well.” He waved a hand at the mecha behind Megatron. “Take him back. Let him have time to think.”


	25. Chapter 25

Among the many, many things Ratchet did not need that morning was a trussed Megatron dropped at the back door. 

Rather than being scared, like a sane mech, Megatron just looked torqued off beyond belief. He growled a curse once everything was back online and untied, shook out his hands, and stalked past Ratchet into the clinic. 

“The frag happened?” said Ratchet.

“ _Guess_ ,” snarled Megatron. 

“Overlord.”

“Yes.” Megatron turned and looked down at him. “I’m putting everyone here in danger,” he said. “I’m putting them all in danger, but acquiescing to Overlord is completely out of the question.”

“I agree entirely,” said Ratchet. “I’m not letting that slagger have you, and that’s final. You okay, kid? You hurt in any way?”

“Just my pride,” said Megatron, and shook his helm. “I will be washing the CR tube, if you need me.”

Hard, exhausting, and not anywhere near delicate work. Prefect. Ratchet nodded. “Just don’t scrub holes in it, kid.” He watched Megatron’s retreating back and made up his mind. He was horrible at this sort of thing but he had to try. He caught up to the other mech, put a hand on his arm and pulled him into the room. 

“Kid. I know you feel bad about both of them. But you’re worth it, all right? And it’s not your fault. Who you are and what you’re doing matters. Don’t you dare fragging throw it away out of guilt.”

Megatron looked down at him with surprise. “Thank you,” he said after a moment. “It means a great deal.”

Ratchet gave him a small tight smile. “Don’t quote me. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Megatron also smiled a little and reached out to carefully pat Ratchet’s shoulder. “It’s safe with me, I assure you.”

* * *

 

It would have been touching, reflected Megatron, if he were in fact in any way inclined to sacrifice himself. He wasn’t. He felt a faint twinge of guilt that Ratchet expected that to be his first instinct, because his real first instinct was to fight. To remove the obstacle, not bow to it. 

No. _Never_ bow to it. Megatron thought back to the long years of medical school, the petty cruelties, the all-encompassing fear, and swore to himself never to let that happen again. He’d seen things here that had been beyond imagining then. 

He wasn’t the same. He’d learned a new sort of strength when they’d taken Terminus, an armor around his spark. There was pain, but it didn’t threaten to make him collapse, not anymore. 

Overlord would regret this. He didn’t know how, not yet, but he’d find a way.

* * *

 

Ratchet left in the evening. Orion heard the sounds of Megatron firmly shooing him out, back home and to his conjunx, and smiled under his repaired mask. Megatron seemed absolutely perfect as a balance to Ratchet, someone to look out for him and make sure he didn’t injure himself with work, as he would otherwise. 

Megatron stepped in to check on him later, brisk and professional. Orion assured him everything was fine. “And,” he added, “I’m sorry for earlier. It was foolish of me. And presumptuous.”

Megatron snorted, dropped what would have been a condescending pat on his helm from anyone else—it just strongly reminded Megatron of Ratchet—and went back to checking the various monitors. “It was a good barometer of your health,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“Happily,” said Orion. He frowned at Megatron’s nasal ridge. “You’ve been in a fight, haven’t you.”

Megatron startled, and glared at him. Then jerked his head at the other room. “Found Overlord’s thugs roughing up a patient,” he said. “Is it true what he tells me about Overlord charging fees to work on his territory?”

“Yes,” said Orion, sobering instantly. “It is. I wish we could do something about it, but Overlord—,”

“Has friends in all the right places. I know.”

“I haven’t even been able to find them most of the time when I’ve gone looking,” said Orion. “And I have. I’ve executed more search warrants on that place than any other building in the city. There’s _nothing._ ”

“Someone must warn them,” said Megatron. “Well. That’s that. You’re as fine as you’re going to be for the moment. Let me know if you need anything; I’m going to recharge.”

Orion gave him another small smile. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“Goodnight. Don’t do anything stupid in my absence.”

“I could say as much to you.”

Megatron made a face, and left. Orion settled back on his berth with a sigh. Yes, the poor mech needed to be kept safe—he seemed to be a good and dedicated medic, willing to risk himself for his patients—but Orion wished he could pursue a relationship, friendship or otherwise, with the medic. 

After a very brief time, he heard footsteps, then the door opening, and someone he assumed was another patient came carefully in, a very small white and red mech that he immediately identified as likely an addict, leaker, siphonist, and a hundred other unsavory things. His movements were quick and furtive, but he met Orion’s optics squarely. “Hi.”

Orion raised an optic ridge. “Hello. Aren’t you concerned about Megatron catching you?”

“Not particularly, no. He’s in the washracks. Only really wasteful thing he does, he can be in there for _ages_.” The other mech sat down on the chair Ratchet usually used and stared at him. “So. What’s up with this place? And Megatron. Mostly Megatron.”

“I don’t think you’re asking the right person.”

The mech folded his arms. “You’re a cop, and you’re on good terms with Ratchet. So, you must know _something_. I overheard you talking.”

“And why has this piqued your interest?” asked Orion. “Forgive me for the assumption, but don’t you have more immediate things to worry about?” 

“If there are a bunch of complete idiots right under Overlord’s nose, laughing at him and _still alive_ , yeah, I’m interested,” said Drift. He folded his arms. “Especially if one of them is the one everyone saw save my sorry aft.”

“I see,” said Orion. Still, this seemed a little much just for self-preservation. “Ratchet and I are friends. I’m honestly none too sure of how he managed to stay here for so long.” Wiser not to name specific patrons, better to only imply it. “There may be someone from high up interested in making sure he succeeds.”

Drift nodded. “What I thought,” he said. He jerked his helm in the direction of the rest of the clinic. “And the miner?”

“He’s a medic now.”

“Yeah, well, I have _optics_ ,” said Drift. “Whatever he is now, he _was_ a miner. And that sort of change doesn’t just happen.”

“Ratchet won’t tell me,” said Orion. “I’m puzzled too.” Puzzled, but he’d put most of it together, he thought. Telling a random street mech wouldn’t improve Megatron’s chances any, however.

“Humph,” said Drift, which sounded like Ratchet and made Orion stare at him. _Ratchet’s contagious_ , he thought. _Only explanation for all of this._ A brief amusing vision of the four of them, all repainted to look like Ratchet, _harrumphing_ at patients, crossed his processor, and he smiled behind his mask as Drift stalked away.

Observant. Orion wished he could recruit the mech. He did have an allowance for informants…

* * *

 

The next morning brought a new body on the clinic stoop. There was nothing to do for the mech, hadn’t been any intervention possible for hours. Ratchet cursed in a tired, defeated sort of way, and took it off to deal with it. The bright red “FAILURE TO PAY” scribbled across the chestplate made the mech’s former employment all too clear; obviously one of Drift’s compatriots who hadn’t heard about Overlord’s territory expansion, either. 

Drift took one look and hid, shaking, in one of the supply closets, where Megatron found him when he went to fetch the mop. He said nothing past asking him to check on Orion. Drift could have been discharged that morning but Ratchet made not indication he was interested in doing so. Megatron had a good idea of why. 

Once all the clean-up had been done, Megatron sat still, helm bent, and felt the anger bubble up in the back of his intake, slow and steady and acidic. 

He couldn’t remember being this angry before. It was cold, all encompassing, and at the same time it turned the world sharp and clean, courses of action clear, his thoughts as bright and delineated as he’d ever felt them. And still the anger came, filling his lines and cables and frame with power. Seductive, he thought. It made him feel powerful. As if he could do anything.

His servos clenched into fists on his knees.

He was _not_ a toy.

He would never _be_ a toy.

Overlord thought that by scaring him with _bodies_ on his doorstep, he could force the matter, but Megatron was not the mech that Overlord thought him, not a pretty plaything.

The thought added roiling disgust to the mixture, the memory of a heavy, unwelcome hand on his shoulder, the press of a finger under his chin. Overlord _revolted_ him. Overlord, who hadn’t had anyone say no to him in so long that he simply did not hear it.

Overlord, whose bullies beat helpless addicts half to death. Overlord, who thought he had a right over every spark unfortunate enough to live within his reach.

No. Overlord had made a mistake. 

Megatron bared his dentae in a silent snarl. Time to show him just how big a mistake he’d made. 

* * *

 

An actual dead body on the clinic stoop. Pharma was going to blow a gasket if he found out. Ratchet sighed heavily, opening the door, closing it behind him. Pharma’s usual acidity was coming back, comments here and there, a hard look, all those things. 

Pharma was already there, staring at something on the table. Ratchet reset his vocalizer. “Hello,” he said, neutrally. 

“Ratchet,” said Pharma softly, and turned. He was holding the UV light. “What is this?”


	26. Chapter 26

Orion was asleep the next time Megatron went to check on him, deeply in recharge, vents rattling with snores. Megatron shook his head a little with amusement, and found Drift asleep as well, though he’d left the berth and had tucked himself into a corner, curled in a ball, several scalpels clutched in one hand. Maybe Ratchet would have taken them away, but Megatron was fairly sure he’d lose fingers if he tried. Drift was too nervous. If the scalpels made him feel safer, so be it.

He made his rounds of the doors, checking locks and security systems, before he went to his own recharge slab. He’d set it up in something more like a cupboard to a mech his size, just off the front atrium, where he’d be woken by any arrivals in the night. This was usually for patients, but these days, he found it comforting for entirely different reasons. He curled up (he had to curl up, to fit) and powered down.

He woke scarcely an hour later to a thump and a soft curse. He rolled to his feet, made his way out to the main room of the clinic, light in hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said, the stern tone that had sent many a mech scrambling, and the beam of light fell on the miscreant.

Who glared at him through a cracked optic and broken nasal ridge. “Turn that stupid thing off.”

Megatron did, reached for the lowest setting of the lights. “Ratchet? What happened?” He went to the shelves and pulled down the bandages and dent-puller Ratchet had been looking for, then went rummaging for a new optic lens. “Were you attacked on the way to the clinic?”

“I suppose you could say that.” Ratchet made to reach for something else. Megatron shook his head. 

“No. You sit down. I’ll get something to mop that up with, and then I’ll reset the nasal ridge. Optic will take a little more time.”

“Wonderful, my apprentice is telling me what to do. How the mighty have fallen.”

“Sit,” snapped Megatron, then added, “sir.” Attacked on the way to the clinic, his aft. Ratchet was acting all wrong for that. He should be at home with Pharma, who was also a doctor, fussing over him. He had no reason to be back here. 

Unless something had happened with Pharma.

“This is going to hurt,” he said aloud, moving over to Ratchet. Ratchet glared at him still more. 

“I think what I taught you to say was _this is going to hurt like frag_.”

“Mmm. Hold still.” He held Ratchet’s helm steady with one hand and reset the nasal ridge with the other, noting with sympathy the gasp of pain and the involuntary twitch. “How does that feel?”

“It hurts like frag,” said Ratchet, acidly. 

“Mmm.” Megatron moved his hand down to Ratchet’s shoulder and looked him in the optics. “If I ask you what happened, are you going to lie to me?”

Ratchet looked away. “Probably.”

Megatron huffed a short vent and straightened up. “Very well. I won’t ask. I’ll clear off one of the cots in the back.”

“You are _not_ treating me like a patient—,”

“Yes, I am, because I’m sleeping in your usual berth,” said Megatron, “and I’m in no mood to give it up, and there’s not enough room for two.” 

Ratchet looked like he was going to yell back. Then his optics slid past Megatron and widened.

Megatron turned. There, in the door, stood Drift and Orion, both staring at Ratchet with alarm.

“Get out,” he snapped.

Orion ignored him. “Old friend, what happened?”

Ratchet’s shoulders hunched and he looked down at his hands. Orion took a step forward, obviously distressed, obviously trying to be helpful in the least helpful possible way. “Old friend? Who attacked you?”

Ratchet sat on the medical berth and looked wretched. Megatron quickly stepped between them, feeling his lips skin back over non-existent fangs in instinctive defensive display. “I said out,” he said. 

Orion’s optics flashed. “He’s my friend.”

“And right now, you’re not helping. Back off, Orion. We’ll talk later.” He glanced at Drift. “You too. You’re not helping. Go back to bed. _Now._ ” He put authority into the last word, and Drift backed away quickly. Orion gave him a long, dubious look, clearly less impressed by his firmness than Drift.

“I know you’re his friend,” he said, stepping closer and pitching his voice only for Orion. “I know you’re worried, and I know it’s hard to see anyone like this. But I’ve been there.” He wasn’t sure he had, but it was the right thing to say. “And it’s easier—much easier—to have someone who’s not a close friend looking after you while it’s fresh. Orion, go back to recharge.”

Orion hesitated again, then nodded. “As long as you’re not going to let whoever did this to him go unpunished.”

Megatron’s mouth twisted wryly. “I think that’s his decision, not mine. I’ll tell you whatever he gives me leave to report.”

That mollified Orion enough to persuade him to leave. 

When he turned around, Ratchet was still staring at his feet. 

“Thanks kid,” he muttered. 

“You can thank me after I’ve pulled those dents and checked you for a concussion,” said Megatron briskly. “I’m suspicious you’re more likely to curse me, though.”

Ratchet snorted and held out an arm. 

* * *

 

Orion did not go to berth. Orion paced. Who would have hurt Ratchet like that, hurt him so badly he didn’t want to talk about it? Had there been injuries he couldn’t see? Ratchet wouldn’t be so cowed by merely being beaten by Overlord’s thugs. Scenarios occurred to his overactive processor, each far worse than the last. What had Overlord _done?_

The door creaked open, slowly. 

“He’s asleep,” said Megatron. “It’s only a few dents and a broken nasal ridge. Somehow found him another optic lens, and he insisted on installing it himself.”

Orion strode up to him. They were of a height, and it brought them nasal ridge to nasal ridge. “What the frag happened, Megatron?”

Megatron stared back at him steadily. “I don’t know. Not for sure. I have only a suspicion.”

“And that is?”

“Do you know Pharma?”

“Yes,” said Orion. “He’s a bit full of himself, but not all that bad a mech once you get past the tough act he likes to project.”

Megatron gave him a long, evaluating look. “Thank you,” he said after a few moments. “Yes, I think he was attacked because someone thought he had drugs on him. It shook him; he thought he knew the neighborhood. Don’t say anything about it to him; it’ll embarrass him worse.”

And he left.

* * *

 

Another morning. Another body. Megatron sighed heavily after checking the bot’s vitals and finding none. Ratchet was still blissfully unconsious and missed him bringing the pitiful thing in. This one had, at some point, been a pit fighter—there were the remains of weapons modifications, ripped from their mounts. Megatron placed him on the autopsy table, and began work.

About halfway through he stepped back with a sharp breath as he touched something and a sturdy, sharp blade sprang from the mech’s arm, just over his wrist. It had been so perfectly concealed he hadn’t known it had existed until he’d jostled the right internal wire. It had very narrowly missed one of his optics; he reached up to check said optic was still there.

Then he looked down at the blade, thoughtfully.

And started to smile.

He had an idea.


	27. Chapter 27

Three nights and another four bodies later found Megatron, wrapped tightly in a rather tarnished metalmesh cloak he’d scrounged from the back of the clinic, walking with a step that was a lot more firm and determined than he felt toward the building Overlord styled his court. He had a plan. He had the new mod. He’d practiced, though admittedly only with the surgical hologram. Somehow, his hands weren’t shaking.

One way or the other, and he was determined it would be his preferred way, he was ending this tonight.

“My name is Megatron,” he said at the door, clutching the metalmesh cloak close about him. “I believe Overlord is expecting me?”

The doormech looked him over, a raking and invasive gaze. Megatron was abruptly very glad of the cloak’s concealment. Mere plating wouldn’t be enough under those optics. 

“Yes,” he said at last, and stepped aside. “Someone will escort you to him. You! Tell Overlord the medic’s here to see him.”

After a few moments, someone pushed his way through the crowd to them. A shuttle sized frame, a sullen gaze. “Huh. Doesn’t look like much.”

“Shut it, Astrotrain,” snapped the doormech. “Take him to Overlord.” An unpleasant smile. “Make sure he doesn’t change his mind.”

Megatron looked up at Astrotrain, all the angrier for knowing that he couldn’t do much about this mech if he decided to do…well, anything Megatron didn’t like. 

Astrotrain sneered at him. “Don’t make me carry you.”

“Do you think me all so weaksparked as that?” snapped Megatron. “Go. Lead me to your master, and I shall tell him to keep you on a shorter leash.”

“If it weren’t for Overlord’s claim on you, I would make you regret that, groundpounder.”

Megatron bared his dentae. “Too bad for you, then.”

The laugh he got in return made his plating prickle, nasty and pleased. “See how long he lets you keep that attitude. All his other toys lasted less than a week.”

Megatron squared his shoulders, his right arm and its concealed blade suddenly feeling heavy and obvious. He said nothing, though he dearly wanted to snap some kind of threat at Astrotrain. He couldn’t have them searching him. 

“This way,” said Astrotrain, and hustled him along through the main room and up a flight of stairs. The hallway they emerged into was a work of art, polished walls inset with brilliant stone, cunningly cut in sinuous shapes. Urns lined the walls. None of it, as far as Megatron could tell, was older than three years. No taste. Just riches. 

The doors at the end of the hall were paneled in a rich organic wood. Absurd. Utterly absurd. Megatron couldn’t even imagine how many times his medic’s salary this was worth; the comparison to a miner’s was even more laughable. 

Astrotrain hauled the doors open and gave Megatron a firm shove inside, sending him sprawling into organic carpeting. “He’ll come for you when he’s ready,” he said, laughing, and closed the doors.

The lock chirped on.

Megatron slowly pushed himself up out of the thick dense fuzz--which still smelled new--and looked around. Dim light. No windows. No art here, just a very large berth. Big even for Overlord. 

“Well,” he drawled, “Good to know he has a grasp of subtlety.” He looked down at the obviously fresh carpet, at the ostentatious furnishings. “And good taste.”

He was not going to sit on that berth like a good pay-bot. He was not going to wait as if he’d decided to fall swooning into Overlord’s grimy embrace. He stood up and began to pace. 

The berth. He could hide under the berth. It was big enough. He knelt to examine it, then went to the door in the back of the room and tested the keypad. Locked. Of course. Damn him. 

How was he going to get _out_ , after?

Maybe hide under the bed until they went away? But who wouldn’t check there?

There was no good way out of this.

Maybe he could use one of Overlord’s built-in cannon to blast the little door open. There were ways to separate something like that from a corpse.

Yes. That’s what he’d do. He swallowed hard, trying to calm his fear. Reached for anger instead. He wasn’t Overlord’s. He _wasn’t._ No matter what the monster thought, fear was his, _Megatron’s_ choice, not Overlord’s. And tonight, tonight, Overlord would learn what it was to cross the wrong mech. 

* * *

 

Ratchet woke after an unusually long and deep recharge (Megatron was right, the berths at the back of the clinic were much nicer, much quieter) to a spate of messages from Pharma. 

About time, he thought. It had been two days. He opened them, unsurprised by the apologies. The same as last time. He swung his legs down from the berth, stared at the floor. Then he deleted them all. 

He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly where he was. A slap was one thing. The other night was not a slap. Megatron knew so as well, and watching Megatron treat him like he’d taught Megatron to care for certain patients…

The problem was, he didn’t know what to do, other than to stay away. For now. He and Pharma had been the Iacon Medical Center’s power couple for so long. He didn’t know how to face the reactions from their friends and colleagues. And it wasn’t like he’d stopped loving Pharma after…after what he’d done the other night. He just wanted Pharma back _more_ now. The way he used to be. Always present, always trustworthy. 

He reached for the light, and a datapad clattered to the floor, turning itself on. He frowned, and lifted it.

It was from Megatron. 

_Ratchet, if I do not return by tomorrow morning, I am sorry._

_I could not allow anyone else to be hurt. I had to do something._

“Oh kid,” whispered Ratchet. “Oh Megatron, you idiot.” He tried Shockwave’s comm signal again—nothing. Dead air. The implications of that terrified him as badly as the datapad in his hands did. He couldn’t try Orion. They’d end up with two dead idiots instead of just one; Overlord’s complex was damn near a fortress, and Orion, though discharged that morning, was still shaky on his feet. Primus alone knew what the inside of his processor looked like. There was nothing he could do. 

_I fully intend to return. Please know that. If I don’t, I only wanted to say thank you. For everything. You did more for me than I thought possible, for Terminus too._

Megatron’s signature glyph at the bottom. Then, hastily typed, filled with his usual typos, at the very bottom: _IF I’m right—Ratchet, people who love you don’t do things like that._

Ratchet put the datapad down, buried his face in his hands, and hitched a sob in through his vents. 

“Idiot,” he whispered. “Oh, you idiot.”

 

* * *

 

Drift peered in the door and hesitated.

Ratchet was curled over himself on the berth, a broken datapad at his feet. Drift knew what was on the datapad because he’d snuck in and read it himself after Megatron had left. He’d read it, and known with instant horror that he’d never be seeing the mech again, no matter what optimism Megatron had tried to put in the note.

Overlord’s toys did not walk away afterward. 

Poor Ratchet. They had to be close, though it was strange to see a medic mourning a miner to such an extent, even if Megatron had been his protege. 

And whoever had dented him so badly…

Drift had his suspicions, and they made him want to dismantle something. He’d seen plenty of those sorts of things, mecha beaten by the very people they trusted, and it enraged him. That, and Megatron leaving…

He’d pushed the door aside and stepped into the room before he thought, then sat next to Ratchet, who didn’t look up at him. After a few moments, he dared to put a hand on the medic’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“There’s _nothing_ we can do,” snarled Ratchet at the floor, optics blazing.

“I know,” said Drift. “I’m sorry.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags. This is the chapter (one of the chapters) they apply to. This chapter involves Overlord, who is the opposite of good things.

It seemed like hours before the little door opened to admit Overlord, grinning broadly. Megatron’s anger blazed up, comforting, better than fear. Overlord said nothing, turned and shut the door, then stood staring at him.

  
“Well, well. Look at you.” He crossed the room, took Megatron by the shoulders. “Even in a shroud, you are lovely.”

  
Megatron’s own fears lent a nasty edge to that comment. He frowned, disliking the confinement. Overlord chuckled and pulled the hood of the cloak back, dipped down to the clasp. It slid from his shoulders and puddled, gleaming, at their pedes.

  
He wanted the cloak back. He shivered in the warm room, not liking Overlord’s optics on him, not liking the firm hand that took his chin and tipped it up into a kiss.

  
Overlord tasted like good high grade, and the sweetness on his lips and glossa made Megatron want to purge. He very nearly did when that glossa shoved into his mouth, demanding and invasive.

  
“You taste good,” said Overlord, and a servo palmed Megatron’s panel. “I hope the rest of you measures up.”

  
Megatron shuddered again with instinctive revulsion. “We need to talk.”

  
“About what? Your presence here is indication enough.”

  
“That I’m done,” said Megatron. “I don’t want you. Back off now. It’s your last warning.”

  
“Or what, little medic? You’ll schedule me for a fuel systems overhaul? Very scary.”

  
Megatron bared his dentae in a snarl. “No. Or you’ll die.”

  
The blow picked him up and threw him into the wall, and the impact fizzed his vision into static.

  
“I take threats very seriously,” said Overlord above him. “Laughable as it was, that was a threat. You will not threaten me again.”

  
Megatron snarled and surged upward, going for Overlord’s spark.

  
Overlord slapped him again, spun him around and shoved him facefirst into the wall. A hand caught his reaching arm and bent it behind him. Another rubbed over his panel. Overlord stepped forward, jamming a knee between Megatron’s legs as he tried to close them. Overlord’s body ground against his and the pressure of his fingers on Megatron’s paneling hurt, sent bolts of panic through Megatron’s frame.

  
“I could have you just like this,” Overlord purred in his audial, and Megatron vented hard, feeling the frantic terror fraying at the edges of his mind. He couldn’t get Overlord like this. The blade under his armor was as useless as if it didn’t exist.

  
Overlord’s knee scraped along his panel. “I bet you’re going to be good,” he said. “Miners like it rough, don’t they?”

  
It hurt. The fear was worse. Megatron turned his face away, panting into the wall, trying to throttle the fear back. I can’t do this if my hands are shaking, he told himself.

  
“But that would be boring,” said Overlord. Oh Primus. He could feel those lips moving against his audials. Drifting down along his neck, over the cabling there. “To win so soon. Besides, you deserve better than a wall. I’ll have you on the berth, as befits your new position. And I want to watch your face as I do. So proud, so arrogant, so assured. I’m going to bring that all crashing down.”

  
He kissed the back of Megatron’s neck. Laughed at the involuntary whimper that tore itself from Megatron’s vocalizer. Megatron bit his glossa hard enough to taste energon. The world swam, but the pain brought him back to the present. He had to keep his head. He had to keep his head. Oh Primus, he had to keep his head.

  
Overlord had stepped back, watching Megatron as he curled at his pedes, optics near white in terror.

  
“Here’s the game, Megatron,” he said. “You can either get on the berth yourself, or I’ll put you there… and then pull one of those pretty medic’s fingers right out. What’s it going to be?” He laughed. “Either way, I’m going to enjoy myself tonight.”

  
Megatron shuddered. Every bit of code he possessed screamed at him to curl into a tighter ball, hand over the back of his neck. Act like it was a cave-in, protect his spark and t-cog and all the soft vulnerable parts of his ventral side. He found himself curled, could not force himself to uncurl, not yet.

  
Overlord kicked him. He felt components dent. Another kick. Not aimed to damage, not seriously. It wasn’t hard enough, Megatron could tell. Overlord wanted to hurt and frighten him.

  
Megatron had mixed pleasure and pain with Terminus, one heightening the other. He’d loved it, loved the thrill of it. This was worlds away. Brutal, artless, aimed to break, and that in the most base way possible. There was no elegance to it.

  
That was something he could despise, he realized, and suddenly the fear lifted enough to let him move again. Overlord was stupid and inelegant and shortsighted, and he was not Trepan. That was all Megatron needed.

  
He spat energon and oral lubricants at Overlord and charged him.

  
It did no good. Hard hands caught him and threw him onto the berth. Overlord was on top of him, hand by his face, hand on his paneling. Megatron shoved at the broad chest above him, arched away from the invasive dig of his fingers, bit the mouth that covered his, panic whiting his processor.

  
“Good!” said Overlord. “Good! I was hoping to have a little more fight out of you—”  
He remembered the blade. Bent his hand out of the way, pressed hard to Overlord’s chest, triggered it.

  
Overlord broke off in mid-sentence, staring at him. Megatron stared back, seeing shock in those optics, the slackening of the bloodied lips. He pushed back his own shock, retracted the blade. The stench of a failing spark rolled over him. Energon splattered on his faceplate, the berth, his frame, hot and stinking. Oil, too. Unnamed lubricants.

  
Overlord looked surprised. Not pained. Not angry. Just surprised, deep, utter, frightening surprise. The hand on his panel loosened.

  
Megatron threw himself out from under Overlord and under the bed. It should be thick enough, he hoped. The spark was going to gutter, and when it did…

  
VOMF. Things broke. The bed lurched. But Megatron was shielded, medic-grade plating designed to protect him from the harmful flare of a point one percenter spark in burnout. He shivered under the berth, Overlord’s fluids already cooling on his plating.

  
They would have heard that. They would be coming. He forced himself to move—  
—and the door opened.

  
Frag. Oh frag. He was going to die.

  
Rapid pedesteps, roughly the same size as his own. They paused; he glanced out, saw blue plating. A moment, then the mech bent to look under the bed. Megatron curled away, closing his optics to hide the glow.

  
“Come with me. Quickly,” the mech said. Megatron opened his optics again, saw a cassette host, red visor, an offered blue hand. He hesitated half a vent.

  
“Quickly. They will be here.”

  
He took the hand. Allowed himself to be pulled out and upright. The mech hurried him through the small door, locked it behind them. “You are not dripping,” he said. “Yet. Good. Come with me. The enforcers will notice you.”

  
“Why?”

  
“Overlord: dangerous. This way.”

  
He followed the mech, feeling the shaking set in. “I don’t understand.”

  
“Not required. In here. There is a washracks. You will be safe. Cassettes will guard.”

  
The doors opened and closed, leaving him in a sparsely furnished set of quarters with a number of red optics staring up at him.

  
He took a breath. Forced himself to be still. Pushed past the pain of the blow to his face. Forced calmness.

  
“Hello,” he said. “Your host tells me there are washracks?”

  
A cat-shaped mech cocked his head at his companions, then stood, sauntered past Megatron and toward another door. Paused to look over his shoulder with an inquiring gaze.  
Megatron followed.

  
The washracks were designed for a mech with symbiotes, large, spacious, and warm. He wondered what the blue mech had done for Overlord to earn it. He wondered if this was a trap. But he was too exhausted with fear to care. He stepped in and triggered the spray, relishing the cold blast of it.

  
He wished, briefly, for the mines. It had been simple. He hadn’t needed to deal with any of this. He’d never had to kill anyone.

  
The purge washed over him without warning, and he doubled over, retching. The first spasm subsided, and he knelt under the spray and shook. The second hit as he rose, flattening him again. After that, he stayed where he was, angry at himself, at his inconvenient frame, shoving away the enormity of what he’d done.

  
After a while, the cat-mech came in again, a soft towel in his mouth. He placed it on the convenience rack near the shower, then looked Megatron over. “First kill, huh?”

  
He’d been so silent Megatron startled at the words. “Yes,” he said after a time. “I’m not…I’m a medic, I’m not supposed to do this…”

  
“Huh,” said the symbiote. “It probably won’t be your last. You’ll be better about the purging with time.”

  
Megatron gave him a dirty look.

  
It made him laugh. “Cube of energon waiting for you when you’re done puking your tank lining out.”

  
He turned to go.

  
“Wait,” said Megatron. “Wait. What is your name?”

  
The mech’s tail twitched. “My own business.”

  
“I want to know who to thank.”

  
“Better that you don’t. Boss-bot will be back for you soon enough. Finish purging, refuel, be on your way. Things will be difficult enough around here without you knowing us.”

  
“Very well.”

  
He pulled himself upright, took the towel and dried off, amazed the energon had come off so easily. He felt odd, a sheen of unreality cloaking the whole. His hands still trembled, but it didn’t seem to matter so much as it had.

  
It had been so much easier than he’d expected. The kill itself. Not what led up to it.  
He shuddered, remembering. No. Not what had led up to it. His panel still ached, as if Overlord’s hand were still on it. He swabbed himself down hastily and went into the main room for the promised energon.

  
It was pretty decent. He drank it, quickly, glad the taste was so different from the stench of bodily fluids. He was a medic. He’d dealt with bodily fluids before. They’d never affected him like this.

  
“He’ll be back in two megacycles or so,” said the cat-symbiote. “Feel free to take a berth. You look like you need it.”

  
“Thank you,” said Megatron, and settled himself. He couldn’t imagine sleeping, but the exhaustion and relief dragged him down anyway into a deep recharge.


	29. Chapter 29

He woke to find the host staring at him, his visor a sliver of red in the gloom. He pushed himself up, slowly, feeling his plating flare with apprehension. 

“Why did you help me?” he asked, almost a whisper. Anything louder seemed foolhardy. 

The visor tilted. “Megatron: does not remember?”

Megatron shook his head. “No.”

Again, more forceful. “Megatron _of Tarn:_ does not remember?”

“No.” There was something eerie in the way the mech said that. An echo of Orion at the clinic. Of Terminus. _Of Tarn_. He knew it was his name, had denied it when Orion asked out of deep seated instinct and suspicion. There had been something in how Orion had said it that had frightened him, and the same fear was stirring now. “No, I don’t remember. How do you know my name?”

A long, long pause after that. 

“Soundwave…often goes unnoticed.”

The mech had given him a name. It was probably foolish of him. Which meant that this, whatever it was, whatever _Megatron of Tarn_ meant to Soundwave, was incredibly important to him. 

“Unnoticed by whom?”

“Functionists.” Pause. “Trepan. Overlord.”

Trepan and Overlord had talked. “They talk about me?”

“Functionists: did little _but_ talk about Megatron of Tarn. Now, do little but talk about Optimus.”

“Optimus.” The name was unfamiliar.

A long pause, as if the mech thought he’d said too much. Then, slowly, “Megatron of Tarn was very important. To Soundwave. To cassettes.”

“Do I know you?”

The visor moved, side to side, a short, sharp shake of the head. “No. Megatron and Soundwave: never met in person. Important nevertheless. Trepan: gave Overlord permission to claim you. Trepan: will be displeased. Trepan: likely to seek alternative methods of neutralizing Megatron of Tarn. Soundwave: desired to warn you before your departure.” 

Soundwave rose. “Come with me.”

Megatron, mind whirling, followed. He expected something more, a great reveal, but Soundwave simply led him to a small door, one that let him out into an alley. When he turned around, the door had shimmered into invisibility behind a hologram.

* * *

 

“Dear Primus. You look dreadful. Come on.” Ratchet hurried him inside. “On the repair slab with you. Let’s get those dents pulled, and some new paint.”

Megatron gave him a wry look. Other than those open-handed slaps, Overlord had stayed away from his face. Away from most really sensitive things. But he ached all the same, and the dents in his chestplate sparked unease deep in his tanks. He didn’t like how clearly Overlord’s fists were outlined.

He thought about the feeling of his concealed blade sliding into Overlord’s chestplates and felt himself smile. What had made him purge an hour ago now made him feel _good._ The look on that fragger’s face. He thought he could _own_ mecha? Well, Megatron had put an end to those ideas.

Forever.

He was worried, distantly, that there was something wrong with that glee but the memories of the dead guttermecha crowded it out of his processor. 

“Here,” Ratchet was saying. “This will sting. Holy frag, what did you do? No, I won’t ask. We’ll wash you off after, too. There’s a good cube of midgrade in it for you. Hold still.”

Megatron grunted as the dents were pulled, as the rest was buffed out. But it felt nice to have Ratchet fuss over him. He leaned back into it and smiled at Ratchet. 

“You can stop being kind,” he said. “I’m fine. And I’m sorry for scaring you—you can start yelling at me if you’d like.”

Ratchet snorted. “I don’t need your fragging permission. I’m just glad to have you back. Now hold still, or I really will yell.”

* * *

 

It felt strange to be back in the office as if nothing had happened. Everyone was trying very, very hard to pretend nothing had happened, too. No one wanted to acknowledge what Overlord had done to Orion, because it might happen to them.

Orion ignored them and worked late. There was a lot to catch up on. 

A little before dawn, a mech came in, making directly for his office. Orion eyed him; someone very like Drift at Ratchet’s clinic (funny how he now associated the two, as if Drift outside Ratchet’s clinic was unthinkable). This one, though, had a very different air. A confident unctuousness that he didn’t like.

When he spoke it was in a whisper, as he half bowed, half leaned over the desk. “I know which way the wind is blowing.” 

Orion frowned, not liking his automatic subservience. “And what do you mean by that?”

The mech looked up. “You didn’t hear? Overlord was killed tonight.”

Orion looked down, closing his optics a brief moment. _Oh,_ he thought. _That’s how it will be. I see._

“Thank you,” he said aloud. “I had not heard. That is…interesting news.” He folded his servos behind his back. “Go. And be careful. I am sure the streets are not safe.” He smiled, not that the mech could see it, not that he wanted to smile, not really, and modulated his field to project warm confidence out of habit. “I will tell you if I have need of your help.”

There, that got him out of the office as fast as possible, so he could sit back and deal with the news. Overlord. Overlord _dead_. It seemed impossible, in defiance of all convention and expectation. It might be a lie, in which case he’d need to be very, very careful indeed. That mech was not one of his informants. Not even close. He was definitely one of Overlord’s.

So if it were true, why would one of Overlord’s take such pains to tell him?

Orion tidied away his paperwork, and rose. It was time to make inquiries. 

* * *

 

Sentinel was a gearstick and Jazz was _not_ having a good day. At least he’d gotten all the information and then some he’d came here for, but successful extraction was looking more and more unlikely. Unless Prowl and his division found a way to actually storm the Senate to arrest the lot of them.

“Prowler,” he said softly into his built-in transmitter, “you’re one-hundred percent right. They’re up to everything you suspected and a lot more. Can we call it a day now? You know I don’t spook easy, but Primus, I’m shakin’ here, and I’m gonna be shakin’ worse once Sentinel gets the Primacy.”

_“He likes you, Jazz,”_ said Prowl, matter of fact. _“And we need you there. We can’t make any arrests yet, but we need you there.”_

Jazz shook his helm, but he’d expected as much. “I’ll do my best.”

He cut the comm, brought up the programs that hid most of his real feelings, field, identity, and slipped back into his role as Sentinel’s head of security. He just hoped there would be enough of himself left next time he resurfaced.


	30. Chapter 30

“Megatron.”

Megatron didn’t look up, still sorting through the newly washed instruments. “Good evening, Orion.”

“Overlord died last night.”

Megatron dared to glance up into the tarnished mirror above the sink. “He did?”

“Yes.”

A long, long pause. Megatron held very still. After a moment, he made himself begin to move again, back to sorting. He was pleased to see his hands didn’t tremble. 

“Megatron…” Orion’s voice trailed off. Megatron reminded himself that Orion was indeed an enforcer, not his friend. That if he suspected something… 

_It was self-defense,_ he wanted to say. _Do you know what he wanted to do to me? How he wanted to_ own _me, like some pet? How many others would he have done to what he did to you, if I held out? I had no_ choice _, Pax._

_No, I had a choice. And what I chose was to defend myself._

He said nothing. If Orion might go away, appeased, without further explanation, he would be glad of it. You did not tell Enforcers anything more than you had to. 

“His people think I did it,” said Orion. “I do not know if you would believe me if I said I hadn’t. My own suspicions are on some poor spark he’d attempted to intimidate too many times, made too desperate, but with the available evidence, with the nature of Overlord’s…employment… here, I can do very little indeed. I would not want to do anything; whoever that poor spark was, he has likely been through enough.” Megatron felt his plating prickle as Orion looked hard at him. “Would any of your patients…”

“Medical confidentiality,” said Megatron quickly, annoyed at _poor spark._ “I would not tell you about my suspicions, even if I had any. He’s dead. Good riddance; let’s hope that the resultant infighting doesn’t cause more deaths than he did.”

“There’s the difficulty,” said Orion. “From what I can gather, from the gossip, from the number of his people who have been visiting me since his death, I think the citizenry expects me to step into his place. I think they think I killed him.”

Megatron couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and laughed, hard, until cleansing fluid came to his optics. Orion Pax, stuffy, unimaginative, one-pede-in-front-of-another _Orion Pax_ , murdering Overlord to take his place? 

“I’m glad _someone_ has a little faith in me,” said Orion, rather sourly. “So. The question is: should I?”

Megatron stopped laughing, turned and stared at him. “You’re joking. And why come to _me?_ ”

“Because you and Ratchet are two of the only mecha I know with functioning senses of morality, and Ratchet is still laughing,” said Orion. Megatron snorted. 

“You wouldn’t last a day,” he said. “There are too many invested parties.”

“Soundwave was one of his lieutenants. Mostly, he followed Overlord because Overlord had threatened to kill his cassettes if he didn’t cooperate.” Orion looked unhappy. “He has a lot of them, even one who might be classed as an automaton—he looks like an organic cat, if we’re to be honest, and it can be somewhat unnerving.”

The big blue mech with the cassettes. The one who’d smuggled him out. Yes, Megatron remembered him. 

“He’s promised me his loyalty.” Orion looked uncomfortable. “You know how I feel about these things. But if I could prevent a slaughter…”

Inside help changed the equation. “It’s your function, Pax. Do with it what you will.”

A long, heavy sigh. “I wish you would say more. I deeply respect your judgement.”

“What can I say?” snapped Megatron, wondering why the frag a police officer had decided his judgement was so superior, anyway. “It would kill you. Maybe not for a century, maybe not for ten centuries, but sooner or later, someone else is going to have this conversation about _you_. And at the same time, if you don’t, the chaos on the streets will take far more lives. Possibly even yours, given your sense of self-preservation. I trust you are a sensible mech. I trust you can see these things. So why should _I_ tell you what to do? You’re your own ‘bot. I respect your autonomy.”

Another heavy sigh. “I see.”

“I have only one question for you, Orion,” said Megatron. “What price your spark?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“This. You won’t remain the same mech. You can’t.” He turned and held Orion’s optics. “Is this cause—whatever you have in mind—worth that?”

Orion’s optics widened over his mask. “I…”

“Answer that. Then decide.”

“And…If I decide on the cause, will you…”

“Will I what?”

“Still wish to have contact with me?” Too hopeful to be a mere inquiry about friendship.

Megatron felt his hands begin to tremble. He tasted sweet energon again, smelled Overlord’s rank heat. Stepping into Overlord’s place. In every way. He was silent, mastering himself. Nothing as terrible as Trepan, but something very near revulsion. He finally managed, voice steady, “That depends on the mech it turns you into.”

“I see,” said Orion. “Megatron, I’m doing this for the best, as best I can manage. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I’m sure you believe it,” said Megatron, quiet, even. 

Silence. 

“If you don’t want…”

“I will let you know if and when I do,” said Megatron. He’d laid aside the tools. His hands were clenched on the washbasin. 

“Then I won’t trouble you further,” said Orion, and with that, he was gone. 

Megatron turned aside and leaned his helm against the cool surface of the cabinets, venting, until a horrible thought came to him.

_They’ll tell him_. His optics opened. _They’ll tell him they saw me go into Overlord’s berthroom. They’ll tell him Overlord died in there. They’ll tell him no one saw me come out. And if he’s angry at me…_

He would deal with it as it came. He told himself that over and over again and it did not ring true. 

Ratchet. If he were accused, he had to warn Ratchet.

He forced himself away from the cabinet, to the door, to Ratchet’s office. “Sir, may I have a word?”

“I told you there’s no need for that, and if you’re looking for permission to pursue a relationship with Pax, I give you all my blessings, and a stern warning that the two of you are probably going to kill each other before the year is out,” said Ratchet, all in one deeply sardonic ventilation, not looking up from the requisition form. “Like you really need my permission.”

“It’s not that,” said Megatron, and shut the door behind him. Folded his hands behind him, out of the way. How to stand when your supervisor addressed you, spark exposed, hands and weapons as far away from him as they could be. “It’s not that, Ratchet, I…”

Ratchet looked up, put the form down. Said nothing. 

“I killed Overlord. Orion Pax is going to find out, if he does what I think he thinks he means to, take over from him. Someone will tell him and—and I refused him, he might act on it, and I can’t let your reputation be tarnished as well…”

“I know,” said Ratchet, very quietly, and Megatron stared at him, struck speechless. After a moment, the older medic grinned. “I’ve still got a few tricks under my plating, kid. And I know Overlord was hunting you. You don’t think I knew what all those bodies on our doorstep were about? I had to warn him off you—as if that worked! It’s absolutely self-defense. You went to ask him to stop. He overpowered you. You killed him in the ensuing struggle.”

That wasn’t how it had happened. Megatron looked away.

“Don’t tell me otherwise,” said Ratchet. “Certainly, I heal everyone who walks through that door… but that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t cheer if some of them dropped dead. I’ve spent enough time patching up Overlord’s victims to be quite sure that Primus has nothing to do with the generation of sparks—particularly that one! I’m just glad I didn’t have to stick you back together again afterward.”

Megatron stared at him, still without words. 

Ratchet dropped his voice. “I know that your experiences haven’t given you much reason to believe this, but Orion wouldn’t do something like that to you in revenge. Your consent, or lack of consent, to flirtation will have nothing to do with what he chooses to do.”

“Thank you,” said Megatron. 

Ratchet looked him up and down critically. “You look like Pit warmed over, kid. Sit down. Here, try this.” He filled a cup partway with something that glistened, dark pink and iridescent. “High grade. Fairly strong…but you look like you could use it.”

Megatron sat, looked at the high grade. “I haven’t finished sorting the…”

“Nonsense. You’re going to be one of my colleagues soon; I need to stop treating you like an intern. You can leave the instruments unsorted until morning.”

Megatron hesitantly accepted the high grade, just as hesitantly sampled it. It was sweet. His optics widened. Very sweet, smooth, an acid bite at the end. Wonderful.

Ratchet smiled at him over his own glass. “I thought you’d enjoy it. Towers mecha do so enjoy their sweets. Don’t worry about the cost; Shockwave has promised me a lifetime supply.”

“You really think it’ll be all right?” He sounded like he was just off the assembly line, and winced inwardly. 

Ratchet set his glass down. “We both took an oath to do no harm,” he said. “But all those poor mecha left on the clinic stoop? Primus, Megatron, _I_ couldn’t see a good solution. Shockwave wasn’t responding to his calls, and I didn’t know what to do. Given all that, I can’t fault you. Not really. Orion for stepping into Overlord’s place, sure. You? No.”

Megatron looked up at him. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Ratchet reached out to pat his hand. “You’ll have to make ugly choices as a medic, Megatron,” he said. “Usually, they won’t be this direct. But they still happen. It’s all right, and for what it’s worth, I’m not angry with you. Now drink your high grade like a good mech.”

Megatron gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Ratchet.”


	31. Chapter 31

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” said Drift, who’d somehow found out without Megatron saying anything. It was probably the listening at doors. “You actually—,”

“Drift,” said Megatron, firmly, and glanced significantly upwards, the usual signal for _you don’t know who could be listening._ Drift settled down, but bits of his armor were still ruffling with excitement. 

“Primus. Who do you think will take over?”

“It’s anyone’s guess. Help me with the autoclave.”

Drift helped. He was quite a good assistant, when he wanted to be.

“Do you think Orion…”

“I really don’t pay attention to those things,” said Megatron, who was currently a filthy liar for that and had been considering talking to Orion at length. 

Drift sighed. “Stop pretending to be Ratchet 2.0 and answer the question, Megatron.”

Megatron blinked down at him with surprise. 

“You and Orion. Orion and you.” Drift gave him a meaningful look. 

Megatron snorted and looked away. “No. Nothing’s happening there.”

“You’ve seen him looking at you, right? He’s half in love.”

“Drift, are you trying to be helpful? Because this is the opposite.”

“You’re an idiot.” Megatron blinked at the venom, the abrupt change in tone from gently teasing to genuinely irritated and disdainful. “Look. People think Orion snuffed Overlord, right? That he’s going to be Overlord’s successor. _That makes him a powerful mech._ And he’s interested _in you_. And isn’t going to _pull you to bits_ like Overlord would. Given his reputation, he’s going to be all sweet and genteel about courting you, and he’ll treat you well. You have enemies. You _definitely_ have enemies, big, nasty ones, and you’re—,” a flick of a hand took him in, big, still awkward in medic’s paint, an outsider, “obvious. And obviously lower-caste. Ratchet can ignore this slag, he can always walk away from this clinic, but do you _really_ think you can? Do you _really_ think you’ll _ever_ be working outside the Dead End? You know that everyone above the gutter will clutch their sparks and purge their tanks at the mere thought of being treated by a mech like you. This is where you’re going to _be_ , Megatron. And this is where you’re _needed_ , because you’re _learning_ the gutter better than Ratchet did, half your spark was already here. And if you’re going to stay here, you _have_ to play the game by the rules, and one of the first is, if someone big and important wants to protect you? _Let him._ ” Drift folded his arms. “So sooner or later, you need to march your aft down to wherever Orion’s set up shop and start flirting.”

Megatron opened his mouth to retort. Decided there was nothing he could say, and closed it again. He went back to unloading the autoclave. 

Drift stood and watched, making no move to help. Long after the silence had stretched into discomfort, he added, “Besides, the way Ratchet was talking to him, he might know something about your past.”

That got Megatron’s attention. 

“Yes,” he said after a few moments, thinking of Orion. The way he’d said _Megatron of Tarn._ “I suppose he might.”

* * *

 

“Dead?” Trepan’s hands didn’t shake. He refused to let anyone see his hands shaking, tucked them quickly behind his back. “How—how can he be dead?”

The mecha at the door shrugged. “One of his rivals bumped him off.”

Trepan’s voice was very near a shriek. “Who? Give me a name, or I swear, the two of you won’t even know how to _transform_ when we’re done with you!”

The guards on the door shrugged. “A cop. Former cop, now. Orion Pax. He’s taking over. Says he wants to clean the place up.” They looked at each other, and the one who had spoken snorted. “We know how long that’s gonna last.”

“Well, let me see him!”

“Sorry. No guests.” 

They didn’t know who he was. Trepan stared at them in impotent fury, then turned on his heel and stalked away. Overlord dead—how could he be _dead?_ The mech was enormous. He even dwarfed the troublesome miner. He was enormous, and a good fighter, and now _dead_. 

Add to that Shockwave on the run, with the artifact, and it was a very bad week. At least that kerfuffle had distracted attention from Trepan’s own little mess with Megatron, that Overlord had _supposed_ to have solved, but still! 

He wanted to get back to the Institute. Somebody was going to suffer for this. And if nothing else, it would make _him_ feel better.

* * *

 

Orion himself showed up about a week later, with several crates in tow. “Is Ratchet here?”

Megatron folded his arms, much more amenable to Orion’s presence now he’d spoken with Ratchet. Ratchet, he trusted. “No, he’s doing rounds at the hospital. What are you doing?”

Orion gave him a slightly amused look, and dragged the antigrav cart with the crates into the clinic. “Spare parts. _New_ spare parts. I’ve been having everyone do inventory of all the things Overlord and his cronies were hoarding and there’s a full room of medical supplies. Including direct-from-manufacturer, packaging-still-sealed spare parts. Joints, struts, optics, all the things you need to keep your bullies functioning after they pick a fight with the enforcers. Wish I knew who’d been doing that work, but he’s probably long gone by now. Lots of mecha fled as soon as Overlord offlined—either because they didn’t want to answer for what they’d done under him, or because he was forcing them to work for him.” He shrugged. “Can’t blame them. We also solved a lot of missing persons cases. The recent ones, at least.”

“Oh?” Megatron had already pried open a crate and was staring, delighted, at the contents. This was enough to supply them for months. 

“Yes. He had a smelter, was recycling whoever turned up dead.” Orion’s voice had gone grim, implying that _turned up dead_ was something Overlord and his cronies had taken an active hand in. “Probably couldn’t use it often because of the energy drain, so we found the corpses awaiting recycling.”

“Appalling.”

“Yes.” They sorted the crates for a time. 

“So, is this _all_ due to random chance?” said Megatron after a time. “Or…”

Orion gave him a wry look. “I’m sure you heard Ratchet yelling at me earlier.”

“Yes, I did. You’re attempting to get back into his good graces.”

“If he has any.” 

Megatron, all too familiar with Ratchet’s bad temper and the way it completely eclipsed every hint that the mech might have a scrap of faith in Cybertronian competence, kindness, or intelligence, snorted. “Thanks all the same.”

“You’re welcome,” said Orion. He helped with the rest of the crates and the sorting before departing. Megatron watched him go, frowning as he did.

Perhaps he had been wrong to react to Orion as he had. Ratchet had reassured him, and he trusted Ratchet’s judgement.

And Drift was right.

Not about the protection, but about Orion seeming to know about his past.

Megatron’s frown deepened. If he ever did want to find out who he’d been, and he _was_ curious, terribly so, he needed to go back and talk to Orion. Ratchet had the location of Orion’s residency, after all. And Orion seemed more than happy to talk to him.

He stood there several more moments, weighing his curiosity against his own anger at what Orion had done.

Curiosity won.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which extraordinarily bad interpersonal decisions are made.

Orion found Megatron on his doorstep several days later, looking uncomfortable. “May I come in?”

As if several of his fantasies hadn’t started with those same words. But Orion had been turned down twice; he knew better than to ask again. Instead, he stepped aside and gestured. Megatron, his frame all one flinch, followed.

“You’re packing,” he said, when the door closed.

“Yes,” said Orion. “It seems like I will have to find someplace more secure—and where innocent bystanders are less likely to be drawn into any conflicts.”

“How considerate.” Megatron mastered himself with an effort and turned to look at him. “I have questions for you.”

Orion gestured to the chairs and seating bench arranged around his small table. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll answer what I can.” He carefully took a chair across from Megatron, not wanting to be physically intimidating, making a show of respecting the other mech’s boundaries. 

Megatron sat. Or rather perched. “It’s about me. You seemed to know me from before, and you’re not the only mech who has. Ratchet won’t tell me who and what I was, before I was reformatted. Somehow, I think you might.”

“Ratchet is concerned for your safety,” said Orion. 

Megatron’s mouth twisted. “I gathered as much. But why?”

Orion raised a hand. “I have one question first: is it really just coincidence that you’re named Megatron of Tarn?”

Fear flicked across Megatron’s face, something horrible and profound that almost made Orion recoil. It was some time before Megatron said, with a great effort, “No, it is not coincidence.”

“And you remember nothing before—?” Orion gestured to him. 

“Nothing before the reformat, save that I was a miner.”

“I see.” Orion rose, went to his shelves, shuffled the datapads and various medals around and then touched the wall in a certain place. A tiny slot opened. He pulled out the pad it contained. “I am almost certain—and I think Ratchet is more so—that prior to your reformatting, you were a writer of considerable talent.”

There was a sharp noise of something too bitter to be amusement from Megatron. “A writer? I can’t write. I’m terrible at it, Ratchet knows that. Ratchet’s _graded_ it.”

Orion hesitated, the pad in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

He turned around, put it in Megatron’s. “I know almost nothing of what happened to you. I just know what you were. A revolutionary. Your words ignited hope across Cybertron, of a better world where form would not dictate function. Where a miner wouldn’t have to struggle to be a medic. Where someone like me could be a scholar, or someone like Drift, a renowned warrior. As far as I can gather, the Functionists found you. And punished you.” He gestured to the datapad. “You wrote that.”

Megatron powered it on, head bending to read it. “This was mine?” he said. “This was me?”

“Yes,” said Orion. “I’ve collected all your writings. And when you stopped writing I… I tried to continue.” He handed Megatron a second datapad. “It’s a poor tribute, but I didn’t want them to silence this forever. You’re right, we have to fight this, however we can.”

“Megatron of Tarn,” whispered Megatron, like a benediction. “Of Tarn.” It sounded like he was understanding something for the first time. “Primus. Orion—I cannot thank you enough.”

“No,” said Orion. “I cannot thank you enough. You began this. And even if you cannot continue it, someone will. I’m only one of many.”

They were very close, he realized suddenly, and there was something different in Megatron’s optics, a shocked sort of trust, something like affection. 

Megatron looked away quickly. “There’s a lot that hasn’t made sense,” he said, matter of fact, an obvious effort. “A very great deal. This…this draws some of it together.” He flicked on the datapad with Orion’s own writings, and then glanced at him with a smile. “ _Optimus?”_

“A penname,” said Orion, feeling awkward. 

“I like it,” said Megatron, and began reading, nodding occasionally. Orion went back to packing. It was something to do, to still his shaking hands. After a while, Megatron changed datapads and began reading his own work. 

“So,” he said, and Orion straightened up suddenly, striking his head on the cabinet he’d been cleaning under.

“That sounded painful,” said Megatron, suddenly much closer. “Let me see that.”

“Thank you,” said Orion, as deft fingers examined his head. 

“Well,” said Megatron, “I’m glad to say it’s probably not fatal.”

Orion glanced at him, their faces level. Megatron’s expression was calm, tender even, and his optics flickered through a reset as he watched. 

“I know I’ve said this before,” he said. “But thank you.”

Orion shook his helm. “It’s only a continuation of your work,” he said. 

Megatron’s optics flickered again and then quickly, as if he feared losing his courage, he pressed a fast, clumsy kiss to Orion’s mask. He pulled away—and Orion pulled him back in, sliding his mask aside, returning the kiss with interest. 

The way Megatron moved with him, the way his mouth parted under Orion’s own, the smell and taste of him—it was all perfect, it was all more than Orion had ever dared imagine. He wrapped an arm and hand around the slender waist and pulled him in tight, still kissing. 

“I fell in love with you a long time ago,” he admitted when they parted, both flushed and panting, Megatron looking startled. “With the mech who had the courage to pen those words. It was foolish—I feared I’d fallen in love with someone of my own imagining, but meeting you has been no disappointment. I’m sorry for having moved so fast.”

Megatron smiled a crooked little smile that made his spark leap into his intakes, and before Megatron could respond, he leaned forward and kissed him again. Gentle, exploring. A question rather than a demand, and Megatron responded in kind, his mouth angling against his. Hesitant hands explored his back kibble. 

Orion’s fans clicked on, and he guided them back so he could lean against a solid wall and concentrating on kissing instead of standing. He ran his hands up and down Megatron’s back, gratified when Megatron made a soft little gasp and leaned into him. He dipped a hand down, toyed with the wiring of Megatron’s hip, eliciting another sharp gasp and a clench of hands on his back. Megatron was running hot, pressing tight to him and his every angle in a way that seemed physically impossible; someone with armor like his shouldn’t be so supple! 

Someone’s panel clicked open and it took Orion a few long moments to realize it wasn’t his. He pulled back a little, releasing Megatron’s waist with one hand to catch Megatron’s wrist, gently disengaging Megatron’s hold on his back and bringing the hand within range of his mouth. Medic hands were sensitive; Ratchet had remarked on that many times, and Orion couldn’t wait to try it. 

He turned his face into the palm of Megatron’s hand to kiss it. Megatron made a very quiet noise, completely arousing. Orion smiled and began mouthing his way along Megatron’s palm to the tip of a finger, then sucking that and the adjacent finger into his mouth, exploring the joints of the fingers. 

Megatron sagged against him, clutching at his shoulder as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Orion shifted his grip so he could support him better, releasing his fingers and kissing his way back to the inside of his wrist. 

Megatron’s hips shifted toward him. His helm tilted back, optics blazing slits. “More,” he rasped. 

Orion turned his attention to the other fingers he’d so far neglected, thrilling at the way Megatron trembled, then stiffened in overload. When Megatron could stand on his own again, he slipped fingers down his aft, pulling back a little to be able to watch Megatron’s face. “May I touch you?”

Megatron shivered. “Please,” he rasped, and Orion slid them along the wet slit of his valve, toying with the node, careful to keep his touches gentle. Megatron buried his face in Orion’s neck and trembled, hips hitching forward and back with the movements of his fingers. 

Orion switched to the other hand, guided Megatron’s hands to the wall so he could brace himself, and lowered himself to his knees. It brought him level with Megatron’s spike, and he wrapped his fingers around it and gave it a long firm stroke. 

He felt the air go out of Megatron’s vents, saw Megatron sag toward him, and smiled, put a hand on Megatron’s hip and his mouth over the tip of Megatron’s spike, running his tongue around the head, probing at the slit. Another huff of hot air, and Megatron’s hips twitched forward. Optimus almost laughed, and leaned up and forward to swallow more of Megatron’s spike. 

It felt good, hot, heavy, tasting of clean metal and arousal. He moaned around it, feeling his own panels seem to tighten. Megatron aroused was _addictive,_ his silence a challenge, the habit of someone who’d lived all his life in hiding, one way or another. Orion firmed his one handed grasp on Megatron’s hips and bobbed his helm, forward and back, meeting Megatron’s aborted thrusts halfway. He was still sliding a finger back and forth across the entrance to Megatron’s valve. After a few more moments, he slid it inside. Megatron only stayed upright with an effort.

It wasn’t long before Megatron overloaded again, spilling down Orion’s throat. Orion looked up at him, a wonderful picture of helpless arousal. The metal of his face was actually faintly pink with heat. 

“Floor or couch?” he asked.

“Couch,” said Megatron, firmly. Orion disengaged, taking Megatron’s hand in his, and guided him back to the couch. Megatron sat. Orion knelt in front of him, leaned up for another kiss, bringing his closed panel flush against Megatron’s bared valve, already wet. Megatron kissed back, hand tight around the back of Orion’s neck, a desperation in his kisses that spoke of horrible loneliness. Orion’s hips canted forward almost of their own volition, feeling Megatron begin to make the smallest twitches against his panel. 

He finished the kiss, panting, then smiled up into Megatron’s face. “Can I help you with that?”

Megatron snorted, jerked his head in a nod, and Orion sank back onto his knees, looking at the valve and spike before him. He gently urged Megatron’s legs apart, glanced up at him, leaned down and kissed the inside of his thigh, eliciting a hiss. He murmured a laugh, working his way to the apex of Megatron’s thighs. The way Megatron’s hips jerked, the harsh vent, were reward enough. 

He tasted good, the heady musk of a healthy and _very_ aroused mech, and Orion heard himself moan deep in his vocalizer. Megatron’s hands moved down to his helm, stroking his audials, and they tightened at the vibration. Orion reached up to better spread him open, laving over the neat entrance, the red biolight on his anterior node. Megatron’s hips rocked into his face, he felt the fluids dripping down his chin, and moaned again. His panel had opened. He wasn’t sure when, but he felt like he was going to overload just from doing this, from the tiny noises Megatron made. So quiet, so so quiet. He wanted to tell Megatron he was safe, he could be as noisy as he pleased.

Warmth bloomed in his spark, a desire to protect and comfort. He moved upwards to Megatron’s anterior node, lavishing attention on it and reveling in the movements of Megatron against his face, at the way he went stiff and shivered in overload. He backed off so he wouldn’t overstimulate the sensitive equipment. 

Megatron looked down at him, helm thrown back, panting. He smiled, leaned back in to start again. Megatron’s hands clenched on the edge of the couch, and he made a small hissing sound. Orion put a hand on each side of Megatron’s waist and held him in place, intent on thoroughly cleaning out his valve. 

At last Megatron made a small noise, a half-breath with a hint of a whine in it, and that small loosening of control sent him over the edge. He stilled, unable to concentrate as he overloaded, letting out a moan of his own. A glance up showed him Megatron with the back of a hand pressed against his mouth, still looking down at him with blazing optics.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, panting. He was still hard, he wanted to stand, to pull Megatron onto his spike, legs wrapped around his waist, frag him senseless like that. He wanted to hold him tight, slowly interface him into a relaxed strutless heap. To simply kiss him and not stop. 

Megatron breathed something like a laugh and held out a hand. “Come here,” he said. 

Orionwent. Megatron kissed him again, now hard and demanding. His spike, too, was stiff. A hand seized Orion’s aft, guiding him into place, and Megatron bucked upward to seat the tip of Orion’s spike in his valve. 

Orion gasped at the wet clenching heat around him and only with an effort kept from sheathing himself to the root. Megatron under him was panting as well, hands trembling. He was tight, not quite stretched enough. 

“Move,” whispered Megatron. “I won’t break.”

Orion rocked gently forward. “I won’t hurt you.”

Megatron’s optics blazed up at him. “I _want_ it to sting,” he said. “I prefer that. Move!” His hand tightened on Orion’s aft, joined by another, and he pulled Orion firmly, bucking as he did.

Orion gasped in surprise, suddenly deep in tight silken heat. Megatron let out a long sigh of pleasure, genuine though Orion was certain that must have hurt him. 

“Frag me,” hissed Megatron. “Rough. _Please._ ”

Orion gave into the baser impulse to pound into the slick heat under him, and Megatron rose to meet each thrust, optics shuttered, venting in sharp gasps. He overloaded in moments, and Orion groaned at the rippling clench around him, gentling his movements. 

“I won’t break,” said Megatron again, when he’d recovered himself, snapping his hips up to make the point. Orion laughed a little and resumed his earlier pace. 

This time he overloaded before Megatron did, used a finger on Megatron’s node to bring him to completion as well before stepping back and collapsing on the couch next to him. After a moment, he turned Megatron’s face to his with a finger and kissed him, sweet and slow. 

Megatron blinked sleepily at him, reached to put a hand on his shoulder, and closed his optics. After a few moments, Orion realized he’d fallen asleep. 

He couldn’t just leave him there. With some effort—miners were heavy to start with, and medics still heavier—he hefted Megatron and moved him to the recharge slab, collapsing next to him. He’d clean up later, he thought, before he too slipped into recharge.

* * *

 

The incident with Overlord had spooked him, Ratchet readily admitted that much, and so he’d asked Megatron to carry an external holo-communicator with him when he went out. Upon returning to the clinic that evening and finding Megatron nowhere in evidence, Ratchet called the link.

It buzzed several times before anyone picked up, and Ratchet stared for several long moments before saying anything. 

“Orion,” he said at last, “Have you debauched my apprentice?”

It could have been an amusing question, in more or less any other tone of voice. It was not, in fact, faintly amusing in the way Ratchet had asked it. It was all but a declaration of war. 

Orion actually reset his vocalizer with an audible, nervous click. _“I,”_ he started, and then, _“Er. Perhaps I have.”_

Ratchet glared at him. “And what did I tell you?”

_“To be cautious about getting close to Megatron, yes, I recall.”_

“Exactly.”

_“Ratchet…”_ Orion looked determined, but worried. _“Circumstances have changed. I know you wanted to protect him initially, but now things have changed, and I can keep him safe. You don’t need to worry about me putting him in more danger.”_

Ratchet stared at him. “You idiot,” he said. “I’m not worried about _his_ _safety,_ but _yours._ ”

Orion blinked. _“What?”_

Ratchet glowered. “You heard me. The last lover he had got disappeared. The last _friend_ he had probably got shadowplayed. You’re an idiot, Orion.” He paused. “And it should go without saying that if you hurt him, I’ll reformat you into a toaster.”

There was a long silence. 

_“I think I’ve figured out most of his background for myself,”_ said Orion at last. _“At some point, I’d like to hear your suspicions as well. For now, though, he’s perfectly well. And in recharge.”_ The visual pickup swung around to show Megatron, flat on the berth, oral lubricants staining the slab. _“I don’t plan to disturb him. It’s not an emergency, is it?”_

“No, it’s not,” said Ratchet, doing nothing to conceal his irritation. “Go sleep, Orion, I’ll just yell at you more next time I see you.”

_“Something to look forward to, I’m sure,”_ said Orion, and cut the feed. 

 


	33. Chapter 33

It took him a moment to realize where he was, and _why_ he was there, and when he did, Megatron pressed a hand over his optics and just barely restrained himself from groaning. 

This was a mistake.

To put it _mildly_. 

He was lonely. He missed Terminus. Orion had done a handful of things that reminded him of Terminus, and here he was in berth with him, because apparently he was an idiot when it came to restraining his impulses.

And he _definitely_ had recharged better than he had in months with a large, warm mech sharing the slab.

_Frag_. 

He turned his head to look at the mech in question, slumbering with his back toward him, deeply in recharge, glossy red paint smudged and scratched. 

Handsome, to be sure, but it wasn’t fair. 

Not to Orion, not when he was still deeply in love with Terminus. Who’d said not to wait. He wouldn’t have said that if he’d thought he’d return alive, and now Megatron had context, he was sure he’d never see Terminus ever again. 

It didn’t erase Terminus’s hold on his spark. Not at all. 

He wasn’t at all in love with Orion, and Orion obviously did love him, and that and how lonely he was—

He was an idiot. 

And he was going to have to tell Orion.

Who mumbled sleepily, endearingly, and turned over to wrap an arm around Megatron’s waist and kiss the tip of his nasal ridge. “Good morning.”

Frag. Frag frag frag. 

Orion was solid and warm against him, his lips gentle, his arm comforting but not confining, a smile in his optics. Frag. 

Against his better judgement, Megatron kissed him back. Orion returned it with interest. 

_Oh,_ thought Megatron, because that kiss went a long way toward explaining why he’d been such a fool. Orion was good with his mouth. 

Orion pulled away from him, slow and reluctant, smiled at his expression. “Would you like some energon?” he asked. “I ought to have offered some last night, but we both fell into recharge so quickly…”

He was sure he should have refused, but his tank cramped with hunger. He nodded, and Orion slid out of his arms and off the berth, quickly vanishing into the next room. After a few moments, he heard the sound of energon being dispensed into cubes, and the clatter of glass and metal. 

He rolled over and rubbed the heels of his hands against his optics. _Idiot_ , he thought again, then paused, almost groaned out loud, because Orion was humming.

He’d been nervous around the mech. Largely because of his position. Largely because of Overlord. Whom he _refused_ to give any more thought. That had been horrible, but he had won, and Overlord was where he belonged—very, very dead. Orion had proven himself, quite rapidly, extremely different. His writings cemented it. What he’d read had certainly been sufficient to make him go from nervous to appreciative.

_That_ much made sense to him. The fact that things had progressed so rapidly after that kiss also made a certain amount of sense. He passed a hand over his intake, but could still feel the ghost of Orion’s on his, and his interface systems warmed somewhat at the thought.

Why the frag he’d decided to kiss the mech in the first place, however, he would have to put down to temporary insanity. Loneliness. Seeing Terminus in him. Something. Whatever way he looked at it, he’d been an idiot. 

His optics widened. 

Ratchet was going to kill him.

* * *

 

Orion returned to his room to find Megatron casting about for the holo-comm. "I should tell Ratchet where I am, he'll be concerned..."

"I've already spoken to him," said Orion, somewhat sheepishly. Megatron looked up at him, a question in his optics, and Orion smiled wryly. "I don't think he's as angry with you as with me. I think I'll have a while longer before he forgives me for any of this."

Megatron gave him a still more worried look. 

"Here," he said, to change the subject, and held out the tray he carried. "I have some additives and supplements, and I didn't know what you preferred, so..."

That made Megatron look startled, then smile, then move over and pat the berth next to him. "That's very kind of you.”

They stirred in the supplements in silence, Megatron looking lost in thought. Orion didn’t like that. It worried him. He reached over and put a gentle hand on Megatron’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Megatron put the cube down, and huffed out a soft vent. “I… What are you hoping for, between us?”

Orion blinked. He hadn’t thought of an us. To be honest, he hadn’t been thinking much the previous night, only how good it felt to kiss Megatron, how desperately he wanted to do something to soothe that loneliness he’d seen in the other mech’s optics. To offer something for the pain he must have suffered, the cruelties at Functionist hands. To make him feel safe for once. How he wanted to ensure that no one would hurt him again, and to have Megatron know that. 

Part of his processor supplied him with how wonderful it would be to wake every morning with Megatron in his berth, peaceful and happy, how good it would be to hear those small controlled gasps and almost-whines on a regular basis. The clenching silken heat of his—

Primus, he’d started to blush. 

Megatron was still looking at him, worried. 

He let out a long vent, and said what he didn’t really mean. “I’m not sure. I think…whatever you want.” He looked shyly at the other mech, gauging his reaction. 

Megatron gave him a very small smile. “I see,” he said, then his smile dropped away and he seemed to fold in on himself.

“Megatron.” Oh how he loved saying the name like that, soft, without worrying about being inappropriate. A friend or a lover, the tone could work for either. It was the emotional intimacy, not the physical, which would matter, he told himself firmly and almost believed it. “It’s all right. If you’re not interested, I’m not about to push. You’re safe—I know Ratchet’s been worried that I might draw even more attention to you, but I’ll make sure you’re protected.” He smiled, not minding that Megatron could see his face.

Megatron reared back, offended and alarmed. “Protected? I’m not doing this for _protection._ I’m doing this because…because…” he trailed off, suddenly looking horribly lonely again. Orion reached for him without thinking. Megatron, almost as unthinkingly, leaned into it. 

After a moment, he let out a very long vent, shoulders slumping again. “This isn’t right,” he said. “It isn’t fair to you. It isn’t about you. There’s—there’s someone else. I won’t see him again. He told me not to wait. He wouldn’t have said that if there was the slightest chance…”

He trailed off again. 

Orion stroked his back, comforting circles. 

“You reminded me of him,” said Megatron. “I was worried you’d be like Overlord. But just then, you reminded me of him. Of Terminus. I’m sorry. I should—”

“Whatever your reasons,” said Orion gently, his spark gone cold at Overlord’s name, “you are welcome here. I won’t hold them against you.”

A pause, as things came together horribly in his processor. “Overlord,” he said.

Megatron said nothing.

“Was it you he was after?”

Megatron stepped firmly back. Orion let him go instantly, saw the look on his face and knew the answer before he said, “Yes.”

Orion shook his helm, half-laughing. “Primus, I can’t believe you or Ratchet didn’t murder me! I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t…”

Megatron looked sick. “I’m sorry I compared you,” he said. “After what he did…”

“I know. And I’m amazed you’re here. You’re a very brave mech, Megatron, and I admire that deeply.” Orion took both his hands in his own, and looked into his optics. “I do enjoy your company. I would like nothing more than to continue this.” An understatement, he realized. “But you’re your own mech, and if you don’t want this—if this is something for just this once—you have my word I’ll respect that.”

Megatron looked away. “And if I don’t know? If I can’t know?”

That was even worse. “I understand. After what you’ve been through—and what you learned today—you have every right to be uncertain.”

He hated saying it more than he’d expected. He said it anyway. It was true, and it was the right thing to say, even if he didn’t like it. 

He gestured to the energon. “I’m certain you don’t fuel enough,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Megatron sipped, then drank deeply. “You have good taste in supplements.”

“I try to collect a few here and there. I enjoy experimenting with the flavors, and it’s not too expensive…” He heard the embarrassment in his own voice, saw the ghost of a smile on Megatron’s face. He was glad to see it. Megatron this morning was almost, if not quite as, bad as he had been when he came in. He wasn’t still flinching, that was good, but Orion was now very worried. There was a grimness behind the other mech’s optics that was all wrong. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d done. He tried to remember the previous night. He’d been careful, he’d asked every step of the way. What had he stumbled into? What sort of horrible or sad memories had he stirred up accidentally. 

“Are you all right?” he asked again. 

Megatron shook his head as if clearing it. “I’m fine. It’s only that I was remembering Terminus. And what happened to him.” He looked at Orion. “I’m sorry. Overlord’s death, and now what you’ve told me—it has been a lot to process.”

“I understand. I’m glad someone killed him,” he couldn’t believe what he was saying, but it was true, horrible as it was, “before he actually got to you.”

Megatron was quiet. He drank from the cube, careful and fastidious. Then, “So am I. It was… not good.”

“I imagine so.” Orion wanted to hold him, comfort him, but restrained himself. If Megatron wanted more, he would have to be the one to move first, as unlikely as that would be.

* * *

 

Orion had believed the lie, and Megatron was pleased with himself, though still nervous. What he’d told Orion about being unsure what he wanted was quite true. He had no idea. He didn’t know what he could and could not bear, whether he could have more than an ill-judged tumble with someone who wasn’t Terminus, Terminus’s last words to him be damned. 

Orion… didn’t seem to be a bad option. He glanced at the mech, barely restraining the tremble in his plating. No. Not a bad option at all, after last night. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his partner making the activities all about him—he wasn’t sure about feeling so passive—but it had been very pleasant. 

Though a very bad idea. Ratchet really was going to kill him. 

He felt tired, and overwhelmed, and right now simple physical proximity seemed like the most comforting thing possible. He looked sidelong at Orion, knowing Orion wouldn’t be the first one to make a move. It was a terrible idea, committing the same mistake again just after he’d told Orion that he didn’t know if he could reciprocate his affections, but he felt the same loneliness, the same insecurity, and before he thought better of it, his hand was on Orion’s, and Orion looked at him with such tenderness that Megatron leaned in and kissed him, and very soon the cubes and their fuel were forgotten completely.


	34. Chapter 34

What Ratchet _actually_ said when Megatron returned to the clinic was, “In my informed medical opinion, you’re an idiot,” and then gave him a small, tight smile. “That said, I’m just as glad you have someone. Even if it is that risk-taking twit. Come help me clean this.”

He nodded and hastened to help Ratchet clean the reusable bench pads. 

The afternoon and evening passed uneventfully enough, save for Drift venturing out of the clinic for the first time. Megatron wasn’t entirely sure if they’d see him again—free from the fear of Overlord, Drift likely didn’t have a pressing reason to return. Megatron hoped he might. He’d grown to rather like the younger mech, and he deeply appreciated the way he made Ratchet cheer up. Ratchet needed all the cheer he could get. He had yet to return home after his most recent injuries.

Megatron’s suspicions had grown more solid, but he had little idea of what to do. He’d seen this before in the mines, and you couldn’t separate someone from an abusive bondmate until they were ready to leave. It just reinforced everything the abuser was saying—or invited still worse retaliation. But it hurt his spark to stand by and watch Ratchet—who’d saved him in every sense of the word—hurt by someone he trusted.

He finished the last few things to be done late that night. Ratchet was on one of the berths in the back, still, and asleep. It was about fragging time. He looked sad. Worried. Somehow smaller, and Megatron frowned at him for a time. Ratchet should be always in motion, he felt, acidic wit always in play. This wasn’t right, him looking this way in his sleep, anxious, drawn. He wished he could do something, but he couldn’t very well murder Pharma. He sighed, turned away, and began to lock up the clinic.

The door he was locking shuddered under a sudden blow. “Ratchet!” said an unfamiliar voice outside, high, desperate, a refined accent. “Ratchet, let me in, we have only hours if not minutes!”

Megatron opened the door and stared.

There was a Senator in the alley. A Senator who shoved past him with a bundle in his arms. Ratchet came stumbling out, bleary-opticked, yawning. Stopped when he saw the visitor. “Shockwave? What the frag?”

“We don’t have time,” said Shockwave again. “Some of my outliers grabbed this. We can’t let their next nominate get it, Ratchet, we can’t let them have that legitimacy. Someone needs to take it, and I think Megatron’s the best bet.”

“What?” said Ratchet, plainly horrified, as Shockwave shucked off the coverings of the thing he carried.

Megatron knew what it was the other mech held, and shock froze him in place a long moment. “You must be joking,” he said softly, and the Senator shook his helm. 

“No,” he said. “They want someone we can control. You can’t be controlled, we all know that, with all they’ve done. Quickly mech, or do you want all you’ve suffered to go to waste?”

Megatron’s gaze dragged down to the Matrix of Leadership. It pulsed calm blue light at him, almost as if it were a spark itself. “What do you mean?”

“You’re more than you are now. You were more. Your words inspired every Cybertronian alive. Your words scared them, and for that, they mutilated you. This is healing. This is your chance. With this, Megatron, you will be a dangerous mech indeed.”

A dangerous mech indeed. He didn’t know if he wanted it. His processor still whirled.

“There is no need to fear,” said Shockwave, not unkindly. “It may not want you. And if you do not want it, by every indication, it will know. But we must try. What you could be—what you could mean, for all of us—it cannot be measured. Why do you think we have tried to keep you safe? Why do you think Ratchet first kept an optic on you? No one has done what you have done, Megatron. No one will do what you _will_ do.”

He hesitated still, looking down at the little Senator before him. 

“Remember Terminus,” said the Senator.

His spark blazed up, hurt and rage together. “What do you need me to do?”

“Kneel,” said Shockwave, smiled a little wryly. “It will be difficult to reach you as it is. And if it takes, the fall will be less unpleasant.”

He did, awkwardly. 

“Open your chestplates.” Shockwave looked aside. “It will need to feel your spark.”

He took a long vent and did. His sparklight flickered out into the room, and he abruptly felt a fool, making himself so vulnerable before someone he didn’t know. 

“Thank you,” said Shockwave, and opened his hands.

The Matrix hung where it was a long, long moment, then moved toward him. Megatron drew in a harsh vent, only just stopped himself from covering his exposed spark with a hand. He didn’t like the way it seemed to be regarding him. It had no optics, but he felt an assessing gaze sweep over his frame as surely as if another mech stood in the room. 

He had only another vent worth of misgiving before it was directly before him. No flight mechanisms, no visible anti-gravs, nothing. It floated there, as if it were waiting for something.

_It means to accept me,_ he thought. _It means to accept me, and it’s letting me make the choice._ He wasn’t sure why he thought that, only that it arrived with painful conviction, brilliant in his mind as if the thing before him had said it clearly. 

He considered it. Considered Terminus, considered Drift, considered what Overlord had done, what the city looked like, his memories of the mines.

He did not want this. Spark-deep, he did not want this. 

What he did want demanded that he accept it. Freedom, justice, equality, mercy, decency—if such things were to be in their world, he had to accept this. 

One vent, two, and he inclined his helm. “Yes,” he said aloud, and offlined his optics.

He did not see it move into his frame, but he felt it, felt the light touch of it around his spark. 

_This is wrong!_ something said within him. _You are all wrong, you are not as you should be!_

A moment of confusion, and the pain burst over him. 

His hands, medic sensitive, screamed agony at him as they twisted, re-formed, claws bursting from their tips. His dentae ached, he tasted energon as fangs lengthened, gouging soft tissues, and deep within him things wrenched and changed. He was on his knees, heard his own voice from a distance rise in a scream. 

Pain seared through his helm, his brain, his optics. He gasped, ragged and frightened, smelled burning paint, felt his shoulder pauldrons reshape, dull pain. 

His optics shattered, burst outward, he tasted their burnt fluids in the back of his mouth, and his world went dark, the pain so great it wasn’t quite pain anymore. There were no words for this agony, no words for what this was, the feeling of struts twisting and changing and—

—suddenly nothing, suddenly floating dark and silence and within his mind Megatron stilled and listened, because something was coming, something important—

—all at once, all at once, they returned.

The darkness filled with words. Filled with anger, and with words. _His_ words. 

Megatron floated in the darkness and laughed with joy, laughed as he hadn’t since he came online, and reached for the streamers of words like a curious protoform, the protoform they had never allowed him to be. The words slipped through and around his fingers, twining like friendly animals. 

_Did you miss me too?_ he wondered, still laughing, and they came to him, curled tight around him, and with them came comforting sleep. 


	35. Chapter 35

Megatron stabilized quickly, but it didn’t stop Ratchet from darting a look of pure hate over his prone form at Shockwave.

“He was just beginning to build a life again, you fragger,” he snarled. “Friends. Do you know how much that took, after what they did? After what they fragging tried to do?” He checked the energon line running into Megatron’s neck, and wrinkled his nasal ridge at the smell that rose from him. Burning optics had a stink all their own. He’d cleaned the sockets and replaced them with the only ones to hand—red. He hoped it wouldn’t arouse any unpleasant memories. 

Primus knew how the poor fragger was going to operate with those claws, though. Ratchet had a whole new set of cuts just from handling them. 

“I do,” said Shockwave, arms folded tight around himself. “And when they catch me, it’s going to be even worse for me. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Sentinel won’t become Prime, and what matters is that we have a Prime, a true Prime, who will fight for all Cybertronians, who already knows what the Functionists will do, and who won’t be cowed by it. He’ll be the saving of us all, Ratchet. Of that much, I am certain.”

Ratchet bristled, remembering Megatron cowering in the corner with his hands clamped over his head, the back of his neck. His terror and determination throughout the medical academy. His agony at losing Terminus. The way Overlord had looked at him. 

“You didn’t consult him,” he snapped.

“The Matrix did,” said Shockwave. He looked at Ratchet a while, shook his head sadly. “Thank you. And…I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” said Ratchet.

A wry smile flitted across Shockwave’s face. “It’s not enough, for him. And for you—I still do owe you an apology. Because I chose right. You’re the best protector he could wish for.” He drew a harsh vent, moved forward as if he meant to touch Megatron, then stopped, hand upraised. He slowly lowered his hand, as if he’d just realized he would be committing sacrilege. As if Megatron's plating was something he wasn't worthy to touch. 

“Keep him alive,” he said softly. “Keep him online, however you can. We need him. We can’t lose him. Ratchet, I hope you understand what I’m asking you for. I hope you realize what I’ve done to you—not him, but to both of you. And for that, I’m sorry.”

Ratchet could only blink at him as he nodded, and stepped out the door, paused.

“Thank you,” he said. “And Ratchet…I’m sorry. I know it won’t cover it, but I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again. Remember me as I was?”

There was a funny sound to his voice, almost breaking, and then he stepped out into the night and was gone.

Ratchet put a protective hand on Megatron’s shoulder, and stared at the door a long time after it had closed behind Shockwave. He supposed that his decision regarding Pharma had been made for him. 

In a way, he was relieved.

* * *

 

He was strapped to a slab, and he couldn’t move.

His hands were gone. The stumps ached. There was tugging, pulling. He could not look down; he had no optics with which to do that. He could not scream, though he wanted to more than anything. He had no vocalizer, no mouth, and the people working on him laughed softly. 

He stood in a busy square, head thrown back, breathing in and tasting the scents of the air with delight, newly forged, happy, an important job to get to, but a handful of minutes to spare, and he spun on the spot, filled with joy and delight.

The pain of crushed legs and backstrut, terror, feeling the dampness under him grow steadily, and he was going to die here, now, half under a building.

Deep exhaustion. This was an unbearable life. For a moment he contemplated a crevasse, wondered if the deep places of this planetoid were enough to kill even a Cybertronian. 

He gasped in ecstasy, backstrut arching, and his lover chuckled into his audial and shifted him ever so slightly in his lap, still pistoning up into him. The change in position hit all the nodes he desired, and he screamed his overload, clutching the other mech’s thighs. 

Swirling a cube of energon, admiring the refraction of the supplements within it. 

A kiss, hard and biting. He didn’t know if he wanted it. 

Pain. Pain pain pain pain please let it end please please please—!

Incredible boredom. The inside of a prison cell could only entertain you so much.

First sip of coolant after a hot day of labor. He looked up at their progress—the housing block was coming along nicely.

He stubbed his pede against a stone and leapt back, cursing. That had hurt!

The pride of looking down at his unit. They’d drilled and drilled and drilled, hours of marching, and now it paid off. The Senate had been impressed!

He sat flat on his aft in his laboratory, gingerly reaching to check if he still had a face. He had to make a note not to combine those at room temperature. 

He sat almost collapsed in an alley, staring at his claws. He wanted his hands back. He’d had a life, once. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d taken, but he didn’t feel good. This didn’t feel like Syk, and when he purged, it definitely didn’t taste like it either. He was getting scared—he could feel himself cooling, condensation gathering on his plating. He shook, and he thought his spark was spasming.

_These are your people,_ something whispered to him, coiling around him, clutching him like a lover. _I give them to you; they are your charge, your responsibility. Feel their joy and their pain, their ecstasy and their sorrow, their delight and their uncertainty. You are Prime. You are_ theirs _above all._

It hurt. Megatron didn’t like it, didn’t like feeling as if his entire spark had been made public, didn’t like the invasion of alien feelings. But he accepted it. There was no other way forward.

_For a better world_ , he thought at the Matrix, and dove back into the maelstrom. After all, whatever else he was, Ratchet had trained him to be a healer. To heal, he needed to diagnose first. And to diagnose, he needed to pay attention to the patient, no matter what conclusions he’d already come to.

* * *

 

Drift meant to return to the clinic. He really did. He only needed to get a few things first.

But there were Enforcers swarming all over the Dead End. It wasn’t like they were actually Overlord, he wasn’t nearly as scared of them, but he still had no plans to tangle with them. 

No, the problem came when he overheard what they were talking about.

“—you sure he’s in the clinic? That’s a popular place. We don’t want to shut it down without really good reason.”

“Certain. Do as you’re told.”

Drift stiffened in horror. He thought about the route he’d taken, about all the various maneuvers he’d had to make around them, and went cold. The clinic was surrounded. There was nothing Ratchet could do even if he did get there ahead of the Enforcers. 

But there was someone who could help. Someone powerful.

Drift flipped himself into alt and went to find Orion.

* * *

 

His vision fuzzed and spat sparks. Static. Resolved, slowly, into pixelated black and white, then, still more slowly, recognizable color.

He was lying on a slab and everything hurt. Ratchet loomed into view, looking drawn and worried.

“All right, kid. Let’s see if I wired those in right. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four,” said Megatron. “And two of them aren’t yours.”

Ratchet made the noise that was as close as Ratchet got to a chuckle when someone was gravely injured, and withdrew the hand and the prosthetic fingers. “Good. Can you tell me your name?”

“Megatron,” he said, and felt himself smile. Something bright and fierce flared up in him. “I am Megatron of Tarn.”

Ratchet’s eyebrows went up. “More or less,” he said. “I think the sticklers are going to be calling you Megatron Prime, though.”

Megatron slowly lifted his hand to his chestplates, and winced as a light touch of the talons there scratched the metal. He withdrew it, turning it over. “How am I supposed to work with these?” he asked, then looked down and startled still more badly. Aside from an irregular patch of red over his spark, two more on his abdomen, a touch here and there at the joints of his arms, his medic’s paint had been burned away, leaving him with gray metal.

Ratchet silently held up a mirror and he winced at suddenly seeing red optics instead of blue.

“I look like myself again,” he said, then wryly, “No hi-viz tape, though.”

“Yes, apparently the Matrix had opinions on its bearer’s appearance,” grumbled Ratchet. “It could have done it a bit less dramatically. We’ll figure out something with the claws, though. Watch out for them, they’re sharper than they look.”

“I wonder why it thinks I need them,” murmured Megatron, examining them more closely. “If I’m to save people…”

The door shuddered under a blow.  
Ratchet stepped back, horror in his eyes before Megatron could even ask the question. At the same moment, he realized he didn’t need to. 

He knew who was on the other side of that door. He didn’t need the shouts that followed. And he didn’t need someone to tell him they were already surrounded.

He flexed his claws, slid his aching frame off the slab, and put himself between it and Ratchet. 

“I see,” he said quietly, and waited.


	36. Chapter 36

Ratchet was trying not to stare. Megatron’s voice had changed, become still deeper, more resonant. He’d had a pretty good voice to start with, and he’d been good at using it to calm patients. Now, even with the Functionists breaking down the door, Ratchet found it was calming _him_. 

Still, he couldn’t let Megatron do this alone. “You just got off a medical slab, idiot,” he snapped. “Who do you think you’re going to fight?”

Megatron glanced over his shoulder and smiled, grimly. “Anyone who’s intending to injure either of us.”

Ratchet shook his helm, let out a huff of a vent. “Kid, if this goes the way I’m pretty sure it will… I’m proud as Pit of you. You’ve done everything anyone could expect, and more.”

Megatron’s expression softened for a moment. “That means a lot,” he said. “Especially coming from you.”

The door burst in. 

From what little Ratchet saw—and it wasn’t much, it wasn’t _long_ —Megatron fought surprisingly well, already adapted to the use of those huge razor-sharp claws. He also fought refreshingly dirty, and with a spark-deep dedication, and a simply unfair knowledge of Cybertronian anatomy.

What he didn’t have, however, was experience.

Which was why they both wound up cuffed and on the ground within about a minute of the door being broken. The guards—Senate guards, Ratchet noted grimly—took particular pleasure in clamping an inhibitor claw to Megatron’s back and neck as he spat curses at them.

They kept them there, waiting, as the others searched the clinic, and then someone sent a signal. 

Trepan walked through the doors, needles already out and a smile on his face. “Well, well, well. Look at what we have here.”

Megatron stared sullenly up at him, and said nothing.

Another mech followed. It was two horrified blinks before Ratchet realized who it was—Senator Proteus, in person. 

“Scan him,” said Proteus, with a sharp gesture at Megatron. 

One of the Senate guard complied, then nodded. “It’s there, sir.”

Proteus made a face. “So Shockwave did manage to find a bearer. How inconvenient. Megaton, wasn’t it?”

“Megatron of Tarn.” It was a growl, seething with rage. 

“Trepan, take care of it.”

Megatron growled again, and Ratchet caught a glimpse of his face. He didn’t look so much angry as scared now, staring up at Trepan. 

“No,” he tried, out loud. “No, don’t—you could kill him, Trepan, I saw what you already did to his brain!”

No one listened. Megatron’s shoulders were seized, pressed down, his helmet wrenched off, the beautiful, delicate flanges that protected his brain pried up out of the way. He made a small high sound of pain at that, tried to get away, and another guard seized his head and neck and held them still. 

Trepan advanced, flicking his needles in and out of his fingers, a lazy smirk on his face. “I’ll just do the wipe I should have done to start with. Take the edge off your intelligence, make you respect the status quo. Much better traits in your new position. Though you’ll need a new name, a rebuild. We won’t have to acknowledge your lowly background.” _Flick flick_. Trepan’s grin widened. “And after I’m through with you, you won’t have to even remember it.”

“No!” A harsh gasp, Megatron tried to struggle and couldn’t, and Ratchet could see the beginnings of optic fluid gathering over his lenses. 

Trepan caressed his cheek, tipped his chin up, smiling like a lover, and plunged his other hand into Megatron’s brain. 

Megatron screamed. 

For a moment nothing happened. Nothing seemed to happen. Ratchet’s tank lurched sickly, as he thought of how far he and Megatron had come, how hard Megatron had worked, and now it was all being taken away again. If anyone had earned a happy ending, it would be him, and yet—

Brilliant electrical charge flashed around Megatron’s chestplates, white edged in blue, and seethed up Trepan’s needles, his arm. Trepan screamed too, yanked his hand away. 

When he held up his hand, staring at it, Ratchet realized why.

His needles had been burned to molten slag. 

“I can’t…” he said, actually terrified. Looked at Proteus, as if for help. “I can’t shadowplay him, sir. I can’t. The Matrix won’t let me.”

Proteus stepped forward. “Too bad. It would have been neater. Guards, kill him.”

“No!” Ratchet surged forward. “Proteus, there’s another way. You’re throwing away a valuable asset—don’t!”

Megatron had sagged over himself, gasping, couldn’t seem to hear what Ratchet was saying. 

“What do you mean?”

“If you keep him online, if you let him ascend as Prime, it’ll silence the critics,” said Ratchet. “It’ll show that you are willing to give him a chance. It will make them feel they’ve got someone, someone who’ll answer to them. It’ll calm them, Proteus, when otherwise Shockwave disappearing, him disappearing, would send them into a frenzy. And there are ways to control him.”

“Don’t listen to him,” snapped Trepan. “That’s what got us this mess in the first place.”

“I’m listening,” said Proteus.

“Let him be Prime. You’ll have control over him every hour of the day. And there’s always Terminus.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Trepan. “He’s lying. Just kill him, now!”

“No,” said Proteus, slowly. “I like the medic’s idea. Terminus…who’s that?”

“His lover. All but conjunx endura. With him, Megatron will do anything you want. You don’t have to kill him.” 

“Turning the people’s hero into the very thing they fought.” Proteus smiled. “I like that.” He looked at Megatron. “It seems like your friend just saved your life. What do you say to that?”

Megatron stared at Ratchet, mute, horrified, frozen. 

Proteus kicked him with a small, brilliantly painted foot. “You say thank you, you uneducated lout.”

Ratchet closed his eyes.

“We’ll take him with us,” said Proteus. “As for you…”

“He needs me,” said Ratchet. “He just recovered, he needs someone to look after him.”

Proteus shook his head. “You’ll be remanded to the custody of your conjunx,” he said. “Pharma, at least, is a good loyal citizen.”

“No!” said Megatron, and was kicked again for his pains. They dragged him to his feet, even as someone uncuffed Ratchet and helped him stand. The guards closed in around him, leaving Ratchet with one on each elbow. Too big and strong for him to fight, but he tried anyway. “Megatron!”

His reaching hand was seized, dragged down, and he had a glimpse of Megatron’s frightened, angry face between the guards before they were out the door and gone. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said softly. They marched him out onto the street as well, dragged him to a safe distance as the local Enforcers closed in on the clinic. 

When they’d finished searching it, they burnt it to the ground. Ratchet watched, and wasn’t sure whether his spark was breaking over that, or Megatron.

 

* * *

 

It was almost a relief to be out of sight of Ratchet. It was _easier._ Now he had to worry about his own survival, not Ratchet’s as well.

He jerked his helm up, forced himself to walk proudly and stare straight ahead. Unfortunately, some of his guards took this as a challenge.

“Just wait,” sneered one. “Once they finish finding out how you got that bauble, they’re not gonna care what happens to you.” Something brushed his thigh. “Who knows, if you’re good, you might get to come with us.”

Megatron felt a curious sort of double-vison; half of him recoiled in disgust and fear of the guard, but the other was quite calm. _See,_ it said. _This is what the Functionists turn us into. Is he so different from you? Yet here he is, threatening you with the foulest of crimes with no provocation, because he can. Because they have, for a breath of time, given him power over you. Given that, he pulls you down too, when if you but stood on each other’s shoulders, you would both be freed. Why? Because to him, you have stepped out of place. You have become something more. In reaching, you betrayed him._

At his lack of reaction, a hand seized his aft in an assured, painful grip, and the guard’s vents were very loud in his audial. “Too good for me, huh?”

Megatron turned his helm to look at the guard, careful and assured. “What did they do to you?” he asked softly. Confusion. He felt himself smirk. “What did you want to be, once upon a time? What _were_ you, before they laid your future out before you?”

The guard’s faceplate went slack with horror, fear. He glanced around. “Shut your mouth, shareware.”

“ _Who_ were you?” pressed Megatron, watching the guard’s fear with pleasure. “You could have been more and they took it from you and you know it.”

The hand on his aft loosened, but for a moment he was certain the guard would strike him. “Shut up!”

He turned his helm to one of the others in his escort. “And you? What did you want to be? Really?”

The guard snarled at him, dentae bared. “If you don’t want us to just kill you—!”

“An engineer,” said a calm voice. Megatron’s head whipped around. The head of the guard detail had paused, looking back over his shoulder at them. Small, slender, black and white with red and blue highlights. Two sensory horns, one to either side of his helm, a handsome face and blue visor.

“Now, don’t antagonize the nice mecha with the guns, Megatron Prime, sir,” said the mech, with mockery in his tone. Megatron’s lips lifted from his dentae with outrage at the condescension. “Cooperate and you won’t be harmed.”

“As if I’d follow orders from you,” snapped Megatron. 

He stiffened as an unknown contact established itself in his comm suite, with an attached message: _I only have one order for you: Survive._

“Meister, come on, can’t we teach the upstart a lesson? He’s a brute, no one’ll notice.”

“Orders are orders. They said unharmed. Pick up the pace and quit talking with him if you’re so worried.”

Megatron shuffled along with them, angry, still frightened, confused by Ratchet’s pleas, but with the dawning realization that he might just have an ally.


	37. Chapter 37

“Oh no,” said Drift, and snatched at Orion’s wrist. “We’re too late.”

Orion didn’t want to agree. Orion wanted to deny it. He couldn’t. The clinic was already a charred husk, and there was no sign of either Ratchet or Megatron among the milling Senate guards. His hands balled into fists, he felt his lips skin back from his dentae, and he made an aborted step forward—aborted because Drift latched onto his arm like a space barnacle, both arms wrapped tight around it, claws digging in, and dug in his heels. 

“I can’t fight,” Drift informed him, sounding grave and worried and determined. “At least, not good enough to take them. And I don’t think you can either, so I’m not gonna let go of you. Your decision whether to drag me into it.” And he squeezed his optics shut.

Orion looked down at him, perplexed. “Why are you trying to stop me?”

“Because you’re not gonna survive, and I’m not losing you as well as both of them today,” snapped Drift. “They cared about you, you stupid fragger.”

Orion stared at the burning wreck that had been Ratchet’s clinic, that had been the symbol of _hope_ for all of them, and closed his optics. Walking away felt _wrong._

“You’re powerful,” Drift whispered against his arm. “You’re their hope, our hope, don’t fragging throw it away.”

Orion froze a few moments more, before his shoulders slumped. “You’re right,” he said quietly, and hated himself for it.

* * *

 

Pharma… was surprisingly pleasant.

He received Ratchet at the door with an expression that looked more sad than anything else, held it open for him. Said, “I’ll have something waiting for you when you’re out of the washracks,” and let Ratchet go on his way unimpeded.

He didn’t seem to notice Ratchet’s involuntary flinch when he closed the door, though.

Ratchet washed up,dried off, all the while feeling as if he were distant from his own frame, watching through another’s optics. His hands didn’t shake. 

Pharma was waiting for him with a cube of energon. Carefully handed it to him, carefully curled his fingers around it and looked at him with concern. After a moment, he left and returned with a thermal insulator, which he tucked around Ratchet’s shoulders—again, not noticing the flinch. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “I know how much it meant to you. I know I didn’t approve of it but really, Ratchet, I am so sorry. They shouldn’t have just taken it from you. I’m sorry.”

Ratchet drank his energon mechanically, and did not respond. 

 

* * *

 

They came for him in the middle of the rest cycle. Terminus was just lucky enough to get wind of it and hide before they found him, jamming himself into a utility closet, venting hard. 

His prosthetics had been holding up. He’d found a friend and protector in this facility, a big purple and yellow mech named Impactor, who’d brightened up the instant he’d heard Megatron’s name, said, “Anything for one of his friends,” with unusual warmth, and hadn’t left Terminus’s side since. Of course something was due to go wrong.

It hadn’t taken much guessing that Impactor and Megatron had been lovers; Impactor wasn’t exactly one for subtlety. But he was loyal, he did still care about Megatron without being jealous, and that was just what Terminus needed. 

“You should go,” he’d told Impactor. “They will find me, it’s just a matter of time. You can still walk away from this just fine.”

Impactor snorted. “Look, if you’re right? Megatron’s gone and rattled some important fragger’s throne. No way am I making taking him down any easier. No way am I letting them grab you and use you like a tool. Not a chance in Pit.” And he grinned, stuffed Terminus in the closet, and stalked off down the hall.

Terminus curled himself small and waited.

As he’d predicted, they found him eventually. It took hours, even longer than he’d expected, but the doors burst open and someone dragged him out by the collar fairing. He got a brief glimpse of Impactor, bloody and sullen, before he was shoved to the ground and his wrists cuffed behind him. 

A familiar face loomed before him, one of his handlers while Megatron had been at the academy. The one who’d threatened him with the smelting pit. “Still doing your work through others, Terminus?”

Terminus managed a sneer. “Of course. He was easy to persuade to make a little cover for me. Not much use otherwise.”

The mech snorted. “Nice try. Your accomplice is going to spend a few decades in prison for being taken in by you. If you’re very lucky, you might join him. Otherwise…” He shrugged, then grinned. “Come on,” he said to the rest of the guards. “Trepan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Terminus cast a desperate, apologetic look over his shoulder at Impactor. Impactor saw him, gave him a short, jerky nod, before they were separated. Terminus looked grimly ahead. 

He didn’t know whether to be proud or terrified. If Trepan wanted him back, it meant that Megatron had remembered something, _done something_ , that had terrified Trepan into needing another way to control him. That could only be good. 

However horrific the future it spelled for both of them.

Terminus shuttered his optics briefly. _Whatever it was, my love, I hope it was something worthwhile._

* * *

 

“Prowler, everything just went to Pit!” Jazz never sounded rattled, he made it a point, but he paced as he made the call. He didn’t want to take more than a handful of moments to do so. Even if Megatron was being guarded by people he could trust. He was terrified of coming back in to find a dead Prime. _Anyone_ , even a half-trained medic, would be better than Sentinel.

He thought of Megatron, of both terror and determination in the other mech’s optics, of his expression as he watched the clinic burn, of the way he had terrified the guards with quiet, reasonable questions. His spark went out to the mech. That was a mech he could follow, find hope in. He hated the idea of him dying for that courage. 

_“I was aware of that,”_ started Prowl. Jazz cut him off. 

“What do I _do?”_

A brief low debate on the other end of the line, then a new voice cut in. Jazz stiffened; he’d never heard this voice before. 

_“Keep him safe_ ,” it said. _“Get him away from them as soon as you can. This is an opportunity to allow them to expose themselves like never before, and you’re correct; Sentinel must never be allowed to be Prime. Keep Megatron safe. He carries the hope of us all.”_

“Who the frag are you?” snapped Jazz, giving up on the ‘not rattled’ thing for good. “Prowl, who the frag is that?”

A pause. Then, _“My name is Dominus Ambus.”_

A thousand questions sprang to Jazz’s mind, including why the frag Prowl was palling around with a a political dissident. But now was not the time. Nor the place. He trusted Prowl completely. Dominus Ambus? Unlikely to be a trick. The Senate didn’t think he was a problem. And they were very, very unlikely to try and get someone to protect poor Megatron. 

And maybe, he thought, just _maybe_ , this meant someone had goaded Prowl into fragging _doing_ something. 

“Will do,” he said, and cut the connection. 


	38. Chapter 38

Megatron had been bracing for pain when they delivered him to his cell.

Which looked surprisingly like a detailing shop, and turned out to actually _be_ a detailing shop when the attendants emerged. About an hour later, thoroughly scrubbed and buffed and with some snotty towerling tracing lines that tickled onto his faceplate with a tiny brush, Megatron was _wishing_ for pain. Torture, hacking, he’d encountered before. He could bear those.

This just made him uncomfortable and confused and irritated. Worse still, it made him feel like _one of them._

And if he needed something to make him purge, that was it. 

As it was, his tanks roiled uneasily. First there had been the Matrix, adjustment and change enough. He was still angry at having lost his apprentice’s insignia and the colors of a medic. He’d never asked for them, but by now he felt he’d earned them, and the Matrix had wiped them away. The new optics, dentae, and sharp claws, he could live with.

Now, though, he’d been polished to a mirror shine, pretty detailing stenciled onto his chest, scrollwork to either side of the patch of red paint the Matrix had left in the center of his chestplate. They’d painted his crest, put his helmet back in place, and painted red details on that. Now, they were decorating his faceplate, two jagged slashes of red down his cheeks, interrupted by his optics, continuing to vanish under his helmet. 

He looked like something else, fierce, worrying, a bit feral. 

He wondered what message Proteus and Trepan hoped his paint would convey. Untrustworthiness? Ferocity?

He let out a long vent, pulled his face away from the artisan’s brush. “One moment,” he said softly, making his voice gentle. Still, the little mech flinched. “I know you have your instructions, but could you do apprentice medic’s insignia? Here and here?”

“I could,” said the artisan, uncertain. “But I had strict instructions…”

Megatron gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. It’s all right if you cannot. It’s only…I worked hard for them, and I want my friend, if he’s watching, to see them and be proud.”

The artisan hesitated, stepped back. His visor contorted in thought, before he reached quickly for a stencil and applied it to Megatron’s shoulder. Megatron felt himself smile again. “Thank you.”

He wondered if it would be too much to ask for a few high-vis markings.

It probably would.

When he’d been painted, the guards cuffed him again and led him to a small room. This was more what he’d expected, particularly when they secured his cuffs to the wall behind his back. He sat on the narrow bench where they’d put him and cycled his optics to deal with the darkness. Now just to wait. 

The Matrix reached for his spark, tentative and comforting. _You just want me calm to do your bidding,_ he thought bitterly at it. 

It ignored him. Ghosts of memory touched his spark, pain, fear. All the horrors of the Functionist regime. The Matrix was delighted. It had found the right champion, someone who’d suffered as badly as anyone under them. 

The Matrix, Megatron noted wryly, didn’t exactly have the best history of keeping its champions alive. Even he, with the barest of education scrounged from whatever datapads he could get his servos on, could count dozens of stories of the horrible demises of Primes past, sometimes at the hands of their own governments. Being thrown alive into smelting pits was the least of it. 

But at the spark of it, he and the Matrix had the same goal, a free Cybertron. And if he had to die to accomplish that—well, it was a price he’d accepted long ago, and without the assistance of anything so illustrious as the Matrix. 

He would do whatever was necessary. 

Even if it offlined him before he saw another sunrise.

The door slammed open, jolting him out of his reverie. 

“Here are the terms,” said Trepan, putting a datapad on Megatron’s knee. It forced him to bend his head to read it, exposing the back of his neck to Trepan. One of Trepan’s little games, no doubt—but he could do nothing now and Megatron took pleasure in acting like it didn’t bother him.

It was a speech. 

He couldn’t give that speech. 

It was everything the Functionists stood for. Everything he stood against. If he were to live and be Prime, they’d take the spark of him. He looked back up at Trepan. “Don’t be insulting,” he said, and twitched his knee to send the datapad tumbling to the floor. 

Trepan scooped it up. “We thought you’d say that,” he said, and gestured at the door. A few of the guards came in. They unlocked him from the wall. “You see, we know you don’t care much for keeping yourself safe, but you do seem to care for others.” He flicked the needles out of his fingers. “And even though my right hand will be recovering for some time from your little fireworks show, this one still works.”

“How nice for you,” sneered Megatron, though something in him quailed. Ratchet had shouted something about Terminus, and he felt the shape of Trepan’s plan in his mind, recoiled from it in horror. How could he make such a choice?

“Bring him,” snapped Trepan. 

They complied, dragging him along without even giving him the chance to stand. Down a hall, and to another room. Trepan unlocked the door. “Uncuff him,” he said, and opened it.

Terminus was there.

Hands cuffed in front of him, a collar and chain securing him to the floor, battered, exhausted. He’d tried to shift his weight a little so his full mass didn’t come down on his stumps, but it had only done so much. He looked drawn, older still than the last time Megatron had seen him. 

“No,” he breathed, horrified, feeling something of his determination shatter. 

“Let me make this very clear,” said Trepan. “You will cooperate. Or I will be given permission to do whatever I like to his mind. I’ll change him into the worst monster either of you could imagine. You’ll have to kill him yourself. You’ll _wish_ you could kill him yourself, when I’m done. You will give this speech. You will behave, and obey, if you want him to stay whole, himself, anything but the shell I’ll turn him into. Do you understand me, Megatron?”

Megatron didn’t have words.

“Do you?” snapped Trepan. 

“Yes,” said Megatron, slowly. 

“Good,” purred Trepan. “Before you decide, we’ll give you a little time with him.”

One of the guards shoved him into the room and the door closed. 

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, going to his knees before Terminus, tilting the other mech’s face up. Terminus met him halfway, a long, achingly sweet kiss, everything he had longed for. 

“I’m all right,” said Terminus. 

“Terminus, I can’t—”

Terminus leaned his helm forward. “Hush. There’s nothing you can say that they won’t hear.”

He laced his fingers with Terminus’s, looked into the other mech’s face for some respite. _Please,_ he thought, even as the Matrix screamed at him in protest, that the lives of all he served were more important than this one mechanism. _Please,_ _ask me to be selfish just this once._

There was no mercy there. Terminus looked back, full knowing, calm and controlled. He heard the door open behind him, Trepan make a noise of impatience. 

The Matrix flared against his spark, a reminder of pain, of anger, of sparks snuffed. Of what the Functionists were. Of what they would do with a Prime doing their bidding. Megatron drew a harsh vent, steeling himself, feeling his face harden. He looked Terminus in the optics, knowing that, for their people, for the sake of Cybertron, he had no other choice.

Terminus’s hand tightened in his. “I know,” he said. 

Megatron nodded, tight and controlled. Pressed the hand to his intake, kissed it. Then rose and turned from the room. 

“Well?” asked Trepan, as the door shut behind him. 

“I will cooperate. Please, don’t kill him.” The lie came too easily. Trepan believed it. He saw the golden optics narrow in satisfaction. Oh, they thought they had him. They thought him too kind to allow his beloved to die, hideously, for the sake of defiance.

They knew neither him nor Terminus. 

He took the datapad with the speech he was to give, made a show of reading it, nodded his agreement. Trepan believed him. The Functionists would believe Trepan. Until it was too late.

He wondered what they would do to him, after they realized that threats against Terminus had no effect. He wondered if he might escape, if the Matrix might shield him from further shadowplay. He didn’t know. 

But there was nothing else to do. 

He turned the words of _his_ speech over in his processor, the speech he knew full well would ignite a war. The speech that existed nowhere but his processor. He dared not trust it to a datapad. He vented hard, and stepped out onto the balcony, into the glare of lights and cameras.

“They told me to give this speech,” he said to the crowd below. “The Functionist Council threatened me, gave me this,” he raised the datapad over his helm, “because they thought me their pet.” 

He clenched his hand, medic-sensitive, miner-strong, and the datapad shattered. 

“I am Megatron Prime,” he said. “ _And you are being deceived._ ”

* * *

 

Terminus knew that when that door opened next, he would be killed. That didn’t stop him from smiling when Trepan stormed in, fear and anger seething through his field. The smaller mech stopped, visibly collected himself. “Your lover has betrayed you,” he said, and for all his assumed calm, his voice trembled. “Do you care to say anything to him before you pay the price of his defiance?”

“Yes,” said Terminus, and bared his dentae. “Good job.”

“Do you think this is a game?” snarled Trepan, surging forward, needles flicking out of his fingertips. 

“No,” said Terminus. “No, but you _did._ Until he gave that speech. And now—how does it feel, Trepan? The ground slipping out from under your pedes, and you hear it coming for you. The shouts, the rage, the hatred…The mob’s at your _door_ , doctor, and it wants energon now. You can kill me. You can mutilate me. You can turn me into whatever kind of monster you like. But that won’t stop it. Do you hear the beast howling? Do you hear it creeping closer? It’s coming for you, Trepan. It won’t stop.”

There was very real fear in the mnemosurgon’s optics, slipping out of control. Terminus leaned in, as much as he could with the restraints. Lowered his voice to a whisper. “And when it does find you, Trepan… Megatron will be leading it.”

Trepan made a sound between a gasp and a shriek and backhanded him hard across the face. “Shut up! Shut up!”

“Too late,” said Terminus, laughing. “I’ve said all I needed to say.”

He forced himself to laugh even as his helmet was wrenched off, as the needles slid into his brain, because the feeling of Trepan’s terror somehow made it possible.

* * *

 

“ _I am Megatron Prime, and you are being deceived.”_

Orion’s helm came up. Hope blazed through his lines between one vent and the next, his optics fixed on the figure standing on the balcony of the Primal Basilica, broad and tall and proud, the glittering shards of a datapad spilling from his fingers, optics blazing. He’d done it. 

He hadn’t dared _hope_ Megatron could do it, but there he stood, defying the Functionists on their very doorstep, and the crowd was realizing what they’d heard, beginning to stir with determination and intent. 

_Primus_. He looked at Megatron, at the defiantly lifted helm and the bared dentae, didn’t hear Megatron’s next words for the way his spark beat hard in his intake. _Primus, he might be able to do it. He might be what we needed._

And then the bullet ripped through Megatron’s chest. There was a half moment of surprise on his face, and then he dropped. 

Orion came to his feet with a shout of denial. 

And the crowd… the crowd went mad. There was a noise, greater than any one scream, the sound of a pained animal, and frames surged toward the Basilica, a moving wave heedless of those who dropped to the Council Guard’s fire, a snarling mob of mecha. Hope. They’d had hope for a half-vent before it was snatched from them, and it was too much. It had snapped the tenuous web of control and fear and now there was nothing but revenge. 

Orion knew. He felt it within himself. 

Without Megatron, they needed direction. He had already taken up Megatron’s mantle once, with his writings. Now, did he have a choice? He didn’t know. He only knew that his spark could not bear this, could not bear turning back to meekly following, to merely writing. He only knew that his spark ached, knowing that hope lay bleeding from a sniper’s blast. That he would not turn aside again. 

“We will rise up,” he said softly to the fritzing screen, the fires and the death. “This was not in vain. I will make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End part 2. 
> 
> Echoes will be on hiatus for the next few weeks, as I have quite literally overrun my outline with this chapter. 
> 
> Oh, and I have my prospectus to write. There's that too...


	39. Act III

**Two Years Later**

* * *

 

“Are you sure about this?”

Prowl shifted his doorwings a little. “Yes,” he said. “I am very strongly concerned about the effects of this conflict on civilians; I believe I am needed at the civilian refugee center. Among other things, there’s a high likelihood that they will become Functionist targets.”

Optimus sighed, and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nasal ridge. “We’ll just be sorry to be losing you.”

Prowl looked uncomfortable. “It’s not a particularly distant facility,” he said. “In an emergency I will be as available as always.”

Optimus reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. “I respect your decision,” he said. “I’m sure it’s the right one; I trust your judgement completely.”

Prowl nodded, coming to attention. “Thank you,” he said. “And Optimus…”

Optimus stiffened a little at the use of his name. Hearing his long-ago penname out loud felt strange, but he’d felt more people recognized him when he used it—and made the corresponding change to his name. He had to be a symbol for them, for this. 

Prowl looked up at him, then, hesitating, put a hand on his forearm. “We do believe in what you’re doing. But make sure you always remember _why_ you’re doing it.”

And if that wasn’t a veiled warning, Optimus didn’t know what was. He knew Prowl and the other former Enforcers among the Decepticons didn’t like working with criminals, were concerned about the use of violence. Optimus was as well, but his friendship with Drift—who’d renamed himself Deadlock, a few days after Megatron had fallen—and with the others of Overlord’s old enclave, had learned a very different view of their old foes.

“There’s one other thing,” said Prowl. He turned, and offered a datapad. “If you decide to act on this, ask Jazz to do it. He’s got the right touch.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Optimus and accepted it. 

Once Prowl was gone, he powered it on, and drew in a soft, sharp vent.

It was Ratchet’s location. 

He put it down, and very slowly rested his helm in his hands, not sure if he was trembling with relief, or with guilt it had taken him so long to find Ratchet. 

Yes, he would ask Jazz for help.

 

“He reacted pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well enough.”

“You’re not happy.”

“No.” Prowl straightened as another person passed them in the hall, face smoothing into an impassive mask. The disciplinary measures necessary to keep these mecha all aimed in roughly the same direction were wearing on him, the reports of atrocities, of planned atrocities, from the other side were exhausting, and their own people—

Well. He wasn’t happy that he was surrounded by people that wanted just as badly to commit the same atrocities and worse, should they get the chance. Optimus’s idealism was all well and good but there were some very simply evil mecha on their side, and he was tired of being the only thing between them and the rest of the world. 

His mind kept trying to sort things into neat compartments, into usable boxes, and it made him feel sick. People shouldn’t be treated and used like weapons. There was right, and there was wrong, and if he functioned as Optimus’s second much longer, he’d start to lose sight of that. It was so easy to justify to himself, it was frightening. 

He couldn’t go any further down that path.

“Hey,” said Jazz, stopping. “Prowler, you with me? I think you did the right thing. For you. And that’s important.”

“For me doesn’t matter as much as for them,” said Prowl quietly. “Most of our…Decepticons…haven’t seemed to realize exactly how much trouble we’re in. They’re only excited about the rebellion—about getting revenge for a lifetime of insults. They’re not _seeing_ where we’re headed if we’re not careful, how _easily_ this all could be crushed. I’m not sure even Optimus sees it. Removing myself from that equation may be a colossal error.”

“Not egotistical at all,” said Jazz, dryly. “Prowl, you don’t carry the weight of the cause on your shoulders alone. Taking care of the civilians targeted by the Functionists is just as, if not more, important than actively fighting them, and I don’t think anyone wants you fighting if you’re not certain of where we stand.” He put a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “We’ve had this discussion a thousand times. We both agreed. This is the best thing we can do. Now stop raking yourself over the smelter about it, my mech.” 

Prowl looked down. Jazz leaned forward and dropped a kiss in the center of his chevron. 

“And if you think you were wrong, you can always go back. Turn command over the refugee camp to First Aid, or someone like him. But for now, this is for the best.”

Prowl let out a long breath, feeling something of his fear and tension leave with it. He patted Jazz’s shoulder, a brief touch, and managed a smile. 

Jazz returned the smile and then, as if he couldn’t help himself, leaned forward and kissed him again. Prowl tilted his face into the kiss so his lips met Jazz’s and kissed back.

It was broken by Jazz’s comm going off. He gave Prowl an apologetic look and withdrew. “Yes?” he said aloud.

Then, “Holy frag, on my way.”

To Prowl’s quizzical look, he said, “They found Ratchet.”

* * *

 

Ratchet wished everything hadn’t become so…so normal. 

But everything was so much like it had been before he’d lost the clinic. And Megatron. Wake up, go to work. Come home. Grouse at Pharma, and be groused at in turn, on a good day. The bad days were getting more frequent, just as expected, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that. Pharma was legally obligated to keep an eye on him. That was what ‘legally remanded to the custody of your mate’ translated to in reality. Pharma was a member of the Functionist party in good standing; they were more than willing to grant him a little flexibility with a defiant mate. As long as said mate didn’t make trouble.

After watching Megatron die, Ratchet didn’t think he had it in him to make trouble anymore. 

Mostly he wanted to avoid it. From Pharma or others. A parole officer—or someone who would have been called a parole officer, if he’d actually been arrested—came and spoke with Pharma from time to time. Pharma, so far, hadn’t made good on any of his threats to report that Ratchet had misbehaved. Ratchet doubted he would. It would have meant giving up his power, and that Pharma wouldn’t do.

He’d satisfied himself with other things, evidently. In the last few days, many of Ratchet’s small, sentimental objects had vanished. It was certainly Pharma’s doing. It could hardly be anyone else. Ratchet hadn’t confronted him yet. He didn’t see the point. They’d probably been destroyed by now.

Sometimes, Ratchet wished he could just be arrested and shadowplayed so he wouldn’t have to remember things being otherwise. 

He missed the clinic. He mourned Megatron, who had deserved better. And he seized on any bit of information about the rebellion—what idiot had decided to call them Decepticons, he’d like to know, though he suspected Orion—with carefully hidden eagerness. He knew he wasn’t going to get to them. He was too deep in Functionist territory, too carefully watched. But knowing they existed was the iota of hope he needed to keep his spark spinning.

Hopefully Drift was among them. Kid deserved to have people looking out for him. 

Ratchet staggered into the break room, exhausted. He just wanted to go somewhere and sleep forever. He wondered if Pharma might be persuaded to do energon prep for one evening, or if asking would provoke outrage and insult. It was hard to predict, these days. 

One of the cleaning droids rammed his foot, hard enough to hurt. It wasn’t supposed to be in here at this hour; Ratchet picked it up and frowned at it. 

It beeped at him. 

Ratchet’s frown deepened.

It wasn’t a standard sequence of beeps. It was a binary sequence, and it spelled a name. 

A pause, and it repeated. 

_Orion._

The programming input button on the bottom blinked. 

Ratchet looked around. He had the break room to himself. He turned it over and stared at the bottom. After a moment, he prodded it—then entered the sequence of his own name, short and long presses.

The cleaning droid blooped happily and tried to trundle out of his hands. He put it back down on the ground, and it scooted toward the maintenance closet. He followed.

He opened the closet for it. And a hand reached out of the closet, seized him by the arm, and dragged him inside.


	40. Chapter 40

It was a thankfully quiet night. 

Soundwave was still on edge.

Optimus was full of hope. That was good. Soundwave and Prowl were full of practicality, which currently translated to being full of worry.

Triply more so just now, with Prowl having taken his leave to run the refugee camp, and Jazz rescuing Ratchet. It left Soundwave as the only person here with a level head. 

Soundwave wasn’t recharging much these days.

And something about tonight seemed off.

Paranoia was healthy. It had kept him and his symbionts alive under Overlord; now it was going to keep him and the Decepticons alive. 

Soundwave reached across the bond to Ravage, who was crouched among the ducting in the recreation room. Ravage reached back with amusement and reassurance, and jacked Soundwave into his audio/visual feed; several smaller mechs clustered around Black Shadow, who was preening under the attention.

Soundwave thanked him, disconnected, and checked Laserbeak and Buzzsaw as he paced back to his rooms. He was reaching for Rumble’s feed when a crash startled him into stillness.

It had come from Optimus’ quarters. Soundwave turned on a heel, calling all the cassettes to him over their bond. Optimus was not a clumsy or careless mech, and something tonight had Soundwave on edge. 

It took him precious long moments to hack the door, but he was faster than the intruder had expected. He found a small orange mech crouched over Optimus, needles in the back of Optimus’ neck. Optimus had stopped struggling, and Soundwave could see the reflected overbright flare of his optics in the window, faceplate retracted, intake gasping, helplessness and terror on his naked face. 

The mech whirled to look at him, tried to disengage and flee, and Ravage raced between Soundwave’s legs and caught the intruder by the arm. The intruder screamed, shook hard, and fled for the window. Soundwave gave chase.

He tackled the mech halfway between the window and the door, slamming him to the ground. “What did you do to him?” he demanded.

The small mech snarled at him, struggling. “As if I’d tell you!”

Soundwave steeled himself. He did not like his telepathic abilities. He did not have much practice with them, but of recent, he’d been drawing more heavily on them. It was that or admit every Functionist spy in the area to the ranks of the rebellion. Optimus was too trusting. 

He had only a flash of impressions, a name – Trepan—before the little orange mech screamed and jammed his needles into Soundwave’s wrist, where they did little good in terms of infiltrating his neural net but were extremely painful. Soundwave grunted, his grip on Trepan faltering. Trepan wrenched away a second time, but Soundwave recovered himself, pushing himself upright and aiming his shoulder-cannon.

He didn’t hesitate before firing. He wouldn’t be able to catch the mech.

The bolt slammed between the mech’s slim shoulders, tearing a hole through his torso bigger than his head. There was almost more hole than chest left, and it obliterated the mech’s spark. 

Trepan was dead before he hit the floor.

There was no information Soundwave could extract from a corpse. He left Trepan there. 

Optimus hadn’t moved, save to press his face into the floor and shiver. Soundwave knelt next to him, unsure of what to do. He’d seen a great many horrible things, but he’d never learned to deal with a shadowplay victim. They didn’t show symptoms by the time they’d wended their way down into Overlord’s hands; he’d never dealt with someone who’d been so immediately attacked, not that he knew of, and his hands shook as he touched Optimus’ shoulders. “Optimus: can speak?”

Optimus groaned and slowly rolled over.

In the last year, Soundwave had fought side by side with Optimus. He’d seen Optimus wavering with exhaustion, with an arm shorn off by an explosion, punch-drunk after a one-on-one fight with an enforcer.

But what he saw on Optimus’ face now was new, and it frightened him. 

“Yes,” said Optimus after a while. And then he reached, groping, for Soundwave’s arm to clasp it in turn. “Yes, I think I’m all right. You…you interrupted him.”

“Intruder. How did he arrive?”

Optimus sighed heavily. “He seemed to have gotten stuck on the ledge outside the window. I offered assistance, thinking he was another refugee.”

Of course he had. Accustomed to the protection of his rank and frame, Optimus still hadn’t come to grips with the fact he was a target, and that he couldn’t necessarily defend himself without assistance. “Soundwave: will reassess security and increase.”

Optimus let out a small vent. “Thank you, Soundwave. And thank you for not lecturing me.”

The fact that he was managing to respond so cogently was encouraging. “Optimus: wants damage assessed?”

“I cannot say that I am looking forward to having someone else in my processor,” said Optimus. “But… I think it would be best. It is not my safety alone that is at stake.”

Soundwave bobbed his head in acknowledgement and reached out for his sense of Optimus. He felt Optimus flinch, both physically and mentally, and hesitated. 

“It’s all right,” said Optimus aloud, and groped to catch Soundwave’s hand in his own. “Go on. I need to know if I am a danger.”

Soundwave reset his vocalizer and tried again.

He wished he could be more precise. He wished he could be more sure. But his sense of Optimus had not changed; he was hurt, certainly, but the pain seemed shallow. Trepan had been disrupted well before he caused permanent harm. But it occurred to Soundwave that he would need to hone his abilities. Optimus was unlikely to be the first or the last victim of shadowplay among the Decepticons. 

“Optimus: has no major damage Soundwave can detect.”

“Thank you.” Optimus slowly sat up. “I suppose this is a warning not to get too comfortable.”

“Yes.” 

Optimus extracted his hand from Soundwave’s. “Again. Thank you.”

Soundwave did not feel he’d done nearly enough, and the nightmare of a fully-shadowplayed Optimus made him shudder. “No need,” he said, and rose to go. 

Optimus followed. “I think I’ll go back to the offices. I don’t particularly want to spend too much time in this room just now.”

“Soundwave understands.” He looked at the corpse on the floor. “We will find someone to deal with the intruder’s remains.”

“Thank you.”

Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that. They walked back to the corner of the base they’d decided to call the administrative offices in silence.

* * *

 

“What the frag?”

“Shh!” A hand clamped over Ratchet’s mouth as the utility closet door closed. “Look, you were the only mech in there when I sent the cleaning droid out, but let’s not count on it staying that way.”

“Jazz?” Ratchet tried to ask, muffled by that hand. 

“The one and only. We’ve got your stuff out of your apartment. Now it’s just you. Anything we forgot?”

“I thought that was Pharma,” said Ratchet. 

“Nah, that was us. You want us to grab him as well?”

Ratchet’s brain screeched to a halt. He thought about the fallout of his escape for Pharma. He should bring Pharma with him. He _ought_ to. 

_Ought to_ did not translate to _wanted to_. 

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to make the decision. Both options seemed equally awful, equally difficult to get out of his vocalizer. Pharma might put all of them in danger, but could he leave him to the outrage of the Functionists? 

He was angry at Pharma. Incredibly angry. Abandoning him was still not right. 

“I see,” said Jazz quietly. “Okay. It’s my call. I’d rather pull you out, and be sure of pulling you out. Come on.”

He should protest. 

He couldn’t protest. He wanted this too much. 

“This way,” said Jazz, lifting his hand from over Ratchet’s mouth and grabbing his arm instead. He pulled Ratchet deeper into the closet. There was a short series of beeps, as he entered a code, and Ratchet heard the click of a lock disengaging. 

“The maintenance bots have their own infrastructure,” said Jazz. “We’ll be using that. You’ll want to do this on your wheels; I don’t know how long we’ve got before someone figures out what’s up.”

Ratchet nodded and complied, feeling stiff and reluctant. He was wrong for doing this. What would happen to Pharma? He could talk Jazz into going back…

Jazz put himself in gear and started at a sedate enough pace. Ratchet followed him, still torn. He wanted to escape. He hated his life here. And he was sick of dealing with Pharma. He’d meant to leave far earlier. He’d not intended to go back after the first time Pharma struck him, and he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t be the sort of idiot who went back to a mech who hit him; he’d seen where that would go. But to leave Pharma to face the consequences of his escape, that wasn’t right.

He’d just made up his mind to tell Jazz to go back when the alarms went off, Jazz hit the brakes to fall in behind him. “Drive faster!” 

Ratchet did, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be. Panic boiled in his tanks; what would happen to Pharma was pushed back in his mind, and fear for Jazz spurred him onward. He sped up by infuriatingly small increments, feeling heavy and slow compared to Jazz.

“Turn right,” said Jazz, and Ratchet threw himself sideways. He heard the sound of a transformation behind him, then blasterfire. 

He hesitated, worried he’d left Jazz behind, but Jazz nudged him hard in the bumper soon after. “Still here, Ratch, keep going. Left at the next turn.”

There was still blasterfire behind them, blasterfire and yells, and Ratchet didn’t dare turn to see what it was. 

“Almost there. Left!”

Ratchet threw himself sideways, and then into root mode when Jazz yelled, “Transform,” and took two stumbling steps before coming to a sudden halt. There was a waste disposal chute, wide, no railing, clear safety violation. 

“And there’s our exit,” said Jazz, transforming next to him. He grinned, grabbed Ratchet around the waist, and jumped. 

Ratchet yelped. The first bump against the chute’s sides took a strip of paint off his side. The second banged a dent into his arm. Jazz was still holding onto him, and he felt a surge of irritation. Yes fine, it was a rescue, but he’d prefer not to be handled like a shipping crate. 

Jazz’s arm tightened around his waist, and their fall ended with an abrupt jerk. “All right,” said Jazz. “There’s going to be a handhold right in front of you. I’m going to need you to grab it; my hands are full with the grapplers.” 

Ratchet looked for and found the handholds in question, a ladder set into the wall. He grabbed and hung on. “Is this all really necessary?” he grumbled. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Jazz. “But we need you back, and I didn’t feel like taking chances, so we’re taking the creepy back route. Get your feet on there too. Yeah. Perfect. Ok, make you can support yourself there, then say the word and I’ll let go.”

“Got it.”

“Good.’ Jazz’s arm released his waist. “The exit we’re looking for is above us. Climb up so I can get on the ladder.”

Ratchet grumbled at him, but remembered the sound of blasterfire and climbed.

Jazz, a quick glance back showed, was hanging from a grappling hook one-handed and grinning like a Sharkticon. That _did_ make Ratchet roll his optics. “Primus spare me from youthful enthusiasm,” he said. 

“Hey, you know what they say. Do what you love.” Jazz swung a bit, and joined him on the ladder with barely a thump, then freed his grappler. “Let’s go. You’ll know it when you find it. After that, hopefully, it’ll be the end of the dramatics, though we’ve got you a nice recycling transport and pile of old parts to hide in.”

“Please tell me that was a joke.” 

“Not a word of it. The entrance should be right above you.”

“Yeah, found it.” Ratchet groped around, hauled himself up. “You need a hand?”

“Nah, just make sure you’re not in the way. Thanks.” Jazz scrambled up next to him. “All right. Follow me, and we’re almost out.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” said Ratchet. With the exertion of the climb behind him, the guilt rolled in. Jazz saw his expression change and reached out. 

“It was my call,” he said firmly. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Ratchet looked away.

“We’ll see what we can do for him,” said Jazz. “Come on.”

He hurried Ratchet along the tunnel, then to a service exit. “Your chariot awaits,” he said with a grin, and Ratchet rolled his optics.

It was, indeed, a recycling truck. 

This was going to be massively unpleasant.


	41. Chapter 41

Prowl looked down over his desk at the minibot—emphasis on _mini_ , the mech really was tiny—in front of it. “Name?”

“Minimus Ambus.”

“And your role?”

“I’m here to help you with the administrative issues of the refugee camp.” Minimus stood taller. “I am very good at administration, and I anticipate being of great assistance in keeping the conditions decent and in accordance with intergalactic code.”

“I would imagine Soundwave would be delighted with your assistance,” said Prowl.

Minimus frowned, looked away. “We had… differences of opinion,” he said. “The behavior of some of the Decepticon soldiers leaves much to be desired, and I expressed frustration at the lack of action taken to address it.”

Someone with similar sentiments to him. Prowl was pleased. “I see. We will find office space for you once we have time. In the meantime, please take those datapads and make sure all our requested supplies are accounted for.”

“Yes sir,” said Minimus, sounding _happy_ , took the datapads, and went to work. 

* * *

 

Starscream looked around the seminar room for help and found none. He hiked his wings up and set his faceplates in a sneer, fists bunching. “Do any of the rest of you _imbeciles_ want to cast doubt upon my academic integrity?”

“Calm down, Starscream,” said one of the professors—incidentally, the same mech who’d just made the accusations. “It’s not a tribunal. We just want to know who helped you with this.”

“No one,” Starscream snarled, “helped me. It’s my data. I collected it. You signed off on the fieldwork expense reports. You _know_ it was just me.”

The professor raised his hands. “We know you’re unusually good, Starscream,” he said. “It’s why you earned a degree from this institution in the first place, why we’re willing to have you here as a junior researcher.”

_After no other institution would take me,_ thought Starscream bitterly. It was just his luck that those Functionist idiots had tightened regulations the year he’d received his degree. 

“But these results are stunning, the paper well-organized. I think everyone here is familiar with your work. This is a step above and beyond, an incredible find—if it’s true.”

“It _is_ true, the data there _supports it!_ ”

“Or you’ve done a very clever job of falsifying it,” said the mech, calm and reasonable, despite the fact that what he was saying might get Starscream thrown out of research for the rest of his function. And then what? The military? He wouldn’t last a week in the military. Taking orders wasn’t his strong suit, no matter how good a flyer he was.

Starscream folded his arms across his chest, buried his desperation and growing fear under complete and utter rage, and glared. “I falsified nothing.”

“It’s a revolutionary discovery,” said someone else. “We have to be sure. Starscream, could you step out of the room, please?”

“I can’t see that it’d make any difference,” snarled Starscream. “You’ve already made up your minds.” He drew himself up. “I have better things to be doing. Like revising this paper.” He snatched up his datapads and stalked from the room. 

“Please wait in the hall,” called one of them. 

Once in the hall, Starscream stood ramrod straight, glaring at the opposite wall. He’d spent ages revising the paper; he’d even lowered himself to consulting the campus writing tutors. He’d labored over it, he’d made sure every point was carefully supported. He’d learned long ago that his natural talent wasn’t enough to get him through this, that simple brilliance wasn’t enough to protect him. He was a flyer, someone who should have been military. There was no such thing as a second chance for him. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

So he’d left, he’d done this research project, found a new, better way to collect energy and process it into energon from very close to stars (too close for safety, some said), a very efficient processes indeed, and then he’d spent the last year painstakingly putting it together into a paper. Every claim was supported. Every sentence cited. He’d labored for weeks over simple wording. He’d gotten a reputation for overenthusiastic flightiness, and he was determined to buck it.

Now they thought he’d falsified all of it. 

Why was he even _trying?_

The door opened. “You can come back in now, Starscream.”

He already knew what they were going to say. He debated just walking away, thought better of it. Slowly, he turned and stepped back into the room.

* * *

 

They stopped. Jazz knocked on the back door of the transport, and Ratchet stood up, _things_ pattering off him and onto the bed of the transport, as he glared at the door.

Jazz caught the glare and laughed a little. “Well, it worked,” he said. 

“I’m covered in half-junked _spare parts_ ,” snarled Ratchet. “These used to be in _people._ ”

“Well, yes.” Jazz shrugged a little. “But you’re a surgeon.”

“Yes, well,” said Ratchet, and dislodged something with a flick of a finger, “ _burrowing around in a sea of spare parts_ is not how I usually operate on people. Where were these headed?”

“Sorting plant. Figure out what can go to the clinics in the industrial districts, what needs to be melted down. On the upside, we’re done with the truck. On the downside, this just stopped being a private rescue. Come on.”

Ratchet ignored the hand and jumped down out of the bed of the truck himself, wincing as he jarred his knees. He looked around.

Damned if he knew where he was. Some industrial district somewhere. Night, though it didn’t look much like night. Smelting pools and machinery cast eerie glows on the undersides of the clouds. 

“Hey!” someone shouted. Ratchet flinched, but the tone was cheerful; a small red, gold, and orange speedster came dashing up to them, a battered blaster strapped to his hip. “Good to see you. Right on time—everyone else is ready to go.”

“You doing this yourself, Roddy?” said Jazz.

“We’ve got some VIPs,” the speedster responded, turned and stuck out a hand to Ratchet. “Hey there! My name’s Hot Rod, and I’ll be your rescuer for this evening.”

Ratchet, hesitating, took the hand. 

“Not his only rescuer,” said Jazz, sounding wounded. “I’m coming too.”

Hot Rod glanced at him with something very near a pout, an expression just as quickly chased away. “The more the merrier.”

“Who else have we got?”

“Lots of dissidents,” said Hot Rod. “Did a prison break a week or so ago; most of them will be with us. I think mostly for Prowl’s refugee camp. Then just a few stupid kids who showed up where they shouldn’t have, some people running from the draft, the usual.”

_You’re not much more than a kid yourself_ , Ratchet thought, and didn’t say. 

“Hey, are you a medic?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good.” Hot Rod led them to yet another transport, this one larger and more tattered than the last. “I’ve got a medical kit but frankly, most of these guys are past my skill level.” He laughed. It wasn’t really a laugh, more of a noise to defy the horror of the situation. He opened the door. Jazz helped Ratchet in. 

“I’ll be up front with Roddy,” he said quietly, and pressed the medical kit into Ratchet’s hands. “We have to get moving now, but if you can do anything—well, Roddy tends to rescue the strays in the worst condition. It’s more than they’d get on the trip otherwise.”

And he sealed up the door. Ratchet turned around, flicking his headlights onto their lowest setting.

Scared faces looked back at him, undamaged and empurata victims alike. Ratchet looked them over, a vast array of Cybertronian misery, and sighed. “All right,” he said. “I don’t know how long this ride’s going to be, but let’s get at least some of this repaired.”

He wished there was time to properly do triage, but packed like this, he’d have to start by the door and work backwards. 

It was good work. It made him feel like he was doing something, and he felt his mind relaxing as it hadn’t for the last two years. He murmured reassurance and comfort. He let them hold onto him, hands almost crushing his shoulder, when the pain chips weren’t quite enough. And all the while, broken plating became whole under his hands. 

He thought about Megatron as he worked, and a memory rose in the back of his mind, so incongruous that it made him smile. The patient he was working on, a mech with a rusting wound up his side, his internals quite visible, saw his smile and smiled back at him. “I’m going to be okay?”

_Barring a miracle, not really._ “Of course,” Ratchet said, patting his shoulder. “It’s going to be a long haul, and no fragging fun, but you’ll make it. Here, have a pain chip. It’s not much, but it’ll help.”

“Thanks, doc.”

Ratchet gave him another smile, this one far more forced, patted his shoulder and went to work. The memory reasserted itself. Helping Megatron with his graduation paperwork and evidence of progress. Poor kid was totally bewildered. That paperwork was bad enough. Add a processor skip to it, and it was a form of hell. 

_“Give me that,” Ratchet said, plopping himself down next to Megatron. “This slag is designed to drive mecha mad. Stylus?”_

_Megatron had already assisted him on a few surgeries, handed the stylus over exactly the same way he would have a scalpel. It made Ratchet smile, looking at him. Megatron seemed unaware of what he’d done._

_It was bad. Annoying. Vague questions. Only, Ratchet had helped hundreds of students. There was little the academy paperwork contained that could still scare_ him. _So he worked on it, asking Megatron questions, at one point handing Megatron a puzzle to keep his hands busy while they worked._

_And then they hit it._

_“What. The. Frag. Is this,” said Ratchet, holding the datapad up. “I’ve taught here for easily three centuries, and what. The. Frag. Is a ‘study plan number’. I have never seen this before.”_

_Megatron looked at him helplessly._

_“Frag it. I am calling them.” He activated the comm frequency, raising an optic ridge at Megatron’s horrified expression. “Yes. You. What the frag is a ‘study plan number’. Oh, I should know, should I? I’m only senior faculty, my mech, but I have never heard of such an absurd thing—Megatron. Megatron of Tarn. Oh no, you didn’t lose it. I know you didn’t lose it. You have five seconds to find it, or I’m coming down to help you. One. Two. Three— I don’t care if it’s not fair that I speed up counting. Oh look at that, five seconds are up. On my way.”_

_He started to rise, gave Megatron a grin. Kid’s expression was comical, optics completely round. On the other end of the line, the hapless staffer ordered to make their lives difficult sputtered urgently that he’d found it. Ratchet sat again. “Oh? Oh good. I knew you’d find it. Good job. All right, read that number off to me.”_

_Pause, as he wrote it down, then read it back incorrectly. The mech corrected him. Probably meant it was the real one, but just in case… “And what’s your name? Oh good. If this goes through, I’ll put in a call so you get a commendation. Well done.”_

_He looked at Megatron. “Well, all right. It’s a little mean. But otherwise, the people tugging on their strings will make life a real hell for you. Bribery’s better but I don’t trust it in this case. Now, let’s write down that number and get this submitted.”_

It was a shame they’d never really see what Megatron was capable of. He’d been a very competent surgeon and doctor, and his bedside manner, though dreadful to the higher castes, was excellent in the Dead End. Frag, it’d showed Ratchet the depths of his own incompetence. 

Grief wrapped Ratchet’s spark. He kept working. A pity there were not more mecha like Megatron…

He almost stopped working as he realized that there might well be.

That the best thing he could do, now he was away from the Functionists, was to recruit new medics. Other people whose dreams had been destroyed by the Functionists. 

He’d trained Megatron, whose brain had been turned into a mess by shadowplay, aided only by Megatron’s incredible determination. 

He could do the same for someone else.


	42. Chapter 42

Starscream walked out of the Vosian Academy of Sciences for the last time with his head held high, and a mass of stolen datapads in his subspace. A quick visit to the slums—less than two blocks from the Academy and several thousand feet down—and certain illegal operations had the papers his advisors had created on new weapons systems several months before they were due to be published.

Even criminal scum were smart. They’d figure out how to make that profitable. 

He kept the best—and he knew it was the best, he’d worked on it—for himself.

That first night was the hardest. He’d already packed all his things, and he lay awake on the recharge slab, a true powerdown eluding him, staring at the ceiling of his far-too familiar little apartment, bare of everything that had made it his. Some smug little fragger with a microscope or centrifuge alt-mode would move in soon enough, he was sure, and he resisted the urge to sabotage the slab. Too much of a chance someone would notice before hand, and he’d be dealing with a fine. 

Thundercracker and Skywarp, in a rare display of consideration, had given Starscream permission to call them whenever he’d like. Starscream had seriously considered it. Seriously considered it all night, and decided not to, because it would mean admitting how seriously this had gotten under his plating. As it was, he had about six hours before the military transport arrived to pull himself back together.

By the time the transport did arrive, he was more than ready to be out of the apartment. He stalked onto the transport, glared at the driver, and sat in the most inconvenient place he could manage, spreading himself and his belongings out so he took up the most space possible. Then he glared at the back of the driver’s head. “Get on with it.”

He refused to look at the receding towers of the university. They weren’t worth his regret.

* * *

 

“Optimus: has fueled?”

“Yes, thank you Soundwave.” Optimus glanced up at him with a smile. “I appreciate it.”

“No appreciation necessary,” said Soundwave. “Soundwave… is happy to help.”

“Still.” Optimus looked up at him, smiling—though Soundwave certainly couldn’t see that through the mask. 

“Here are the reports,” said Soundwave, placing them on Optimus’ desk. “Jazz has made his check-in. They are on a transport from Rodion. Expected arrival: ten hours.”

“A transport?”

“Political refugees,” said Soundwave. “Ratchet is tending to them.” 

“Good. Any news from Prowl?”

“Arrivals this morning: small combiner team, another cassette host and cassettes, a former bodyguard, and several laborers. All in good condition. Combiner team has indicated interest in joining military operations.”

“Good. We can always use more people.” Optimus sighed heavily and leaned back in his seat. After a while he said, “It’s hard not to compare myself to him, you know.”

Soundwave cocked his head, clearly puzzled. “Who?”

“Megatron.” Optimus was looking at the ceiling. “Would he have ended this war by now? Reading his works, he was a smart mech. Far more so than I. And with the Primacy backing his efforts…” He sighed. “I’m worried I’m not the right mech for the job.”

“Optimus’s efforts: perfectly competent.”

“He advised me against taking over from Overlord, you know,” said Optimus, still staring at the ceiling. “I still worry about it; I wasn’t the one to kill him, but the alternative of a power vacuum seemed so much worse…” He sighed again. “I’m worried we built on a corrupt foundation.”

“A corrupt foundation can be strengthened.” Soundwave put a hand on Optimus’s shoulder. “New supports may be planted, the weight slowly shifted from the rotten to the sound.”

Optimus looked up at him, grateful. “Thank you, Soundwavc,” he said. 

“The future of Cybertron is most important,” said Soundwave. He tapped Optimus’s shoulder. “Do not let your uncertainties undermine it.”

* * *

 

“You’re not the only one,” said Skywarp. 

Starscream glared at him. “Because comparing my misery to that of others makes me feel so much better.”

Skywarp waved his hands in denial. “That’s not what I meant!”

“What the twit here means,” said Thundercracker, peering up over the edge of his datapad at Starscream, “is that the number of people housed in this barracks alone has doubled in the last month. And a lot of them are intellectuals like you.”

Starscream frowned at his trinemates. Originally, they’d all attended the same institution. Skywarp had left voluntarily, because of bad scores and a general disinterest. Thundercracker had made it through the unspecialized portion of the coursework, then decided to focus on his writing. He’d made it all of a year into that before being disenrolled and conscripted.

Starscream had held on the longest, missing his trinemates except for their brief flying sessions on days off, but utterly determined to make his career as a scientist, no matter the odds against him. 

The odds had become too high.

“Flightframes should be military,” said Thundercracker softly. “Most of them—no one told them that explicitly, but it was implicit in what happened. But with some of them, the ejection from the institution wasn’t nicely cloaked in a thin veneer of justice, like yours, Starscream, but they just were…disenrolled. Registrations failed. And the recruiters were waiting for them outside the door.”

“What I want to know is why now?” said Skywarp. “Like, seriously. We’re not at war with anyone, except maybe the Decepticons and they’re very noisy troublemakers at best.”

They both turned to look at Skywarp, who gave them a worried stare in response. “Right? I didn’t just say something stupid, did I?”

“They raid for energon,” said Thundercracker thoughtfully. “They’re running refugee camps down there in Kaon, and nothing the Council’s done has gotten rid of them yet. I don’t know if that’s luck or skill. They’ve not tried to turn the whole army against them, but maybe someone’s worried.”

“Decepticons?” said Starscream, blankly. 

“Have you been under a rock?” said Skywarp. “It’s all anyone talks about. The Decepticon rebellion. They’ve not gotten too far out of Kaon but they’re there… and a lot of the political dissidents keep escaping down there. WHo knows what they’re planning.”

“Which is probably why they’re conscripting so many people. Especially flyers,” said Thundercracker. “Optimus—that’s their leader—Optimus hasn’t got any flyers at all behind him. An air offensive might do the trick. Starscream, you liked politics, how did you miss this?”

Starscream folded his arms and looked away. “I was doing research.” _Desperately trying to fill every gap I could so they wouldn’t decide I was faking my research and throw me out. Lots of good that did me!_

But he was turning the situation over in his mind. New conscripts, many like him, torn out of their chosen careers with a thin approximation of justice—which in reality amounted to unjust accusations. Humiliated and expelled and dumped here to fight the Decepticons, whoever they were.

“Who in their right mind calls themselves _Decepticons?”_ he sneered. “It makes them sound like the villains.”

“Optimus says it’s to honor Megatron Prime,” said Skywarp, and even Starscream knew that name, remembered the mech’s defiant speech and terrible fall. He hesitated. 

But…

“Look,” said Skywarp. “These are technically banned, of course, but… here.”

He handed Starscream a datapad. Starscream lifted it.

Stared at the heading burning there on the screen.

**_FORM DOES NOT DICTATE FUNCTION._**

Lowered it.

And smiled. 

“Oh no,” said Skywarp, very quietly.

Starscream kept smiling. An army filled with malcontents. People like him. Except not really. No one else was going to have the bearings to do what he was going to do.

He didn’t know what the Decepticons really were. But what mattered, the only thing that mattered, was that the Functionists be punished for what they’d done to him. For what they’d taken from him.

Turning their own army against them would be the perfect revenge, and what better work to build off of than that of the Decepticons? What name better to invoke than that of the fallen Prime, that poor, foolish, brave mech who’d overtly defied the council and died for his pains? 

Starscream would have his revenge.

And then, unless this Optimus was very, very clever, cleverer than someone who named his movement the Decepticons was likely to be, Starscream might see about sweeping that movement out from under him. Power. Real power, to change things as they ought to be changed.

Yes. 

That might be just enough to assuage the pain of losing his research career.


	43. Chapter 43

The transport rumbled to a stop. After a moment, the back door opened.

Ratchet knew he stank. He knew he was covered in enrgon and all the other fluids a truck full of tired, sick mecha could produce. Nevertheless, he glared at the people who’d opened the door. “Do you mind? I’m calibrating his fragging _eyes._ ”

“Ratchet,” said Orion’s voice, relieved. “We’re so glad to see you.”

“Yeah, he’s going to be so glad to see me, too,” snapped Ratchet, going back to work. “Everyone’s stable, close the door for five more minutes and then I’ll be properly happy to see you.”

They did. Ratchet went back to work, finished the calibrations, and instructed someone to knock on the back of the transport. It opened again, to show a welcoming party somewhat deflated by the delay. “Now you can thank me,” said Ratchet, and as soon as they’d unloaded enough of the van to unload him as well, found himself dragged into an immense hug by Orion—no, Optimus—himself. 

“I am so glad you’re all right.”

“You’re going to be covered in energon,” said Ratchet, glumly. 

“Some things are more important,” said Optimus, sounding very happy, and hugged harder. “Jazz said it went off without a hitch.”

“If that was going off without a hitch, I’m terrified to see what Jazz defines as a hitch,” said Ratchet. “Primus.” Jazz had done a good job, but he wasn’t deep enough into this rebel general thing to define being shot at as smooth sailing. “But he did well, all things considered. Where’s your infirmary? Jazz tells me you have refugees.”

“And only a recently-graduated medical student to tend to them. You might know him—First Aid?”

Ratchet tried not to freeze up. “Pharma’s student.”

“He defected as soon as he got his degree.”

“I recall.” There had been a lot of yelling that night. Ratchet rubbed his wrist, reflexively. At least Pharma had stopped short of breaking it, though it wasn’t as if Ratchet could have given himself much credit for that. Pharma hadn’t been listening to his denials. Shouted or sobbed. 

He still felt guilty for leaving him there. He’d forgotten it while treating patients, but the guilt came back now. 

Optimus saw his expression close down. “Ratchet? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” said Ratchet. “Where are the patients?”

“You should rest…”

“No,” snapped Ratchet. He looked away, and then decided to take the risk, the hope that Optimus might listen to him. “We left Pharma. And…”

“Oh no,” said Optimus, horrified. “I’m sorry. If Jazz didn’t manage it, it was impossible. Don’t torment yourself over it, Ratchet. We’ll make sure he’s safe.”

Ratchet almost set him right. Almost said, _he was my jailer, not my lover_ , almost waved his wrist under Optimus’s oblivious nasal ridge. 

But he didn’t.

The next question might be why he’d stayed. Or when it’d gone wrong. Optimus beating himself up over having overlooked it. And nothing Optimus could say after that revelation would make Ratchet feel better. There would be condemnation and outrage on his behalf, shock, anger that Pharma had “fooled them”, and Optimus wouldn’t understand why Ratchet felt guilty. Pharma would be left to the Functionists and after everything, Ratchet couldn’t do that. It was one thing to not take him in the moment, but to destroy all chances of escape?

He couldn’t. 

He couldn’t.

So he said nothing.

* * *

 

“Well?” said Prowl softly, watching Ratchet leave with Optimus. 

“Delicate,” said Jazz. “He’s burying himself in work. He did that the whole way here. I asked if he wanted me to extract Pharma with him. He hesitated. I made the call to just take him.”

“He hesitated,” said Prowl, and his optics narrowed. “That’s telling.”

“Yup. If you look at the politics, Pharma’s in good with the Council. Despite Ratchet’s activities. That makes sense to me. Not sure Optimus has a nasty enough processor for it to make sense to him.”

“Still,” said Prowl. “I worry. I don’t want him unsupervised. We haven’t seen him in two years, we haven’t had word from him in two years, and Functionist mnemosurgeons could have done anything in that time.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Jazz, rocking forward and back on his stabilizers. “Don’t I know it… Well, we know Aid’s clean, we’ll have him take a look. Then…”

“I want to watch him for a few months,” said Prowl. “Before we let him know.”

“Understood.” Jazz sighed. “It can wait a few months, right?”

“Everything’s stable. The risk of the wait is less than not waiting.”

“I’ll go with you on this one, but can’t say I like it.”

“I know.”

* * *

 

Sedition was so much _fun_. 

He should have dabbled _long ago._

The thing was, Starscream found himself sympathizing altogether too much with the cause he was espousing. Far from being a means to an end, he was beginning to actually believe in what the Decepticons were working toward… and he didn’t like that at all. That was embarrassing. 

But… Megatron had had some excellent points.

Optimus was more stodgy but he had some good points, too. Starscream found himself reading and rereading that borrowed datapad from Thundercracker more often than he wanted to admit. Worse still, he found himself responding to it on a spark-deep level. Most often, it made him angry. Everything that had happened to hi, all the unfairnesses, the destruction of his career, all of this fit in with a larger pattern. Worst still? Everything pointed to it getting worse. And worse. Who knew if it would be violent revolution or a Functionist dystopia that won, but sooner or later they were going to have to deal with one or the other. 

Violent revolution sounded pretty good to Starscream. 

And the more he read, the more he _thought,_ the more the current system—and anyone who’d benefitted from it—seemed totally irredeemable. 

What to replace it?

Megatron had died before he could posit a replacement system.

Optimus was being cagey.

Megatron had briefly touched on the idea of empathy overcoming all els, which had made Starscream laugh derisively and uproariously. Fortunately, the writings close to his disappearance had begun to come around to something else, something both more practical and authoritarian. There’d been hope for him yet, Starscream thought. 

Starscream had no idea how the Decepticons were organizing themselves. Probably as a militia. Which meant that either Optimus was in favor of a military-style chain of command, or he’d soon come around to it. 

And that was exactly the sort of system conducive to a coup. 

Primus. Look at the way Optimus wrote. One foot in front of the other, full of foolish idealism that would get people killed. The Decepticons, if they were to succeed, needed a new leader.

And given how quickly Starscream had moved up the chain of command these last few months, there was no reason to be modest. He himself would be well suited for it. 

To his shock, he found himself enjoying command. Sure, it’d been unpleasant, before command realized the advantages to an educated officer, and started promoting him. The promotions made him think that maybe this wasn’t all pointless after all. He’d begun to put actual _effort_ in, and that had even better effects. 

He was beginning to consider taking a firmer hand in his own fate. He had compromising material on several of his immediate superiors. Some compromising material on people who were considerably further up the chain of command as well. 

Disseminating it, of course, would do the trick.

His equals and his inferiors would be happy to see him rise. He was the one who bought everyone drinks, that first promotion. He was the attentive audial. He was stern but fair—and a little more than fair to those who lent a servo at the right time, those who listened carefully and were… helpful. He’d been careful to make no firm statements of political beliefs, but some careful copying and judicious placement of ‘lost’ unlocked datapads meant most of his mecha were reading Decepticon philosophy. With no clue, of course, who’d left them there…

He still had much to learn. But that wouldn’t be the case for long…

 


End file.
